Secret of Westerham
by skyoflemon
Summary: Just when you think you'll be bored indefinitely, a good murder or two shows up. What Sherlock didn't count on was what he'd find at the asylum for the criminally insane besides the debatable murderer. There could be more to it all, dare we say, a national security crisis? Oh and pancakes... Rating may change.
1. Chapter 1

**I know everyone says "This is my first Sherlock fic." But it really is! Most likely my last as well cause I get enough of a fix reading all the other stories people have written! Hope it measures up.**

 **An A/U nestled in between "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville" which I may have expanded the time lapse to fit this story.**

 **Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Super sorry about all my grammar/punctuation, if you're into that please message me corrections :D.**

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A deafening roar broke out over the concentrated crowd tiered in the stadium. The icy rain that poured down from the open sky failed to dampen the ferocious spirit of the match attendees. They only seemed to acclaim all the more passionately.

Two spectators, obviously out of place, stood, or tried to stand in the midst of the jostling. The taller one, dark haired and slender looked around discombobulated and he leaned over, trying to call something into his companion's ear.

What? The sandy blonde haired man mouthed back to him.

"I SAID, WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE AGAIN JOHN!?"

The words were barely distinguishable over the commotion.

"YOU SAID YOU WANTED TO SEE WHERE IT HAPPENED SHERLOCK!" Exclaimed John Watson hoarsely.

Another crescendo in the cheering marked another exciting moment in the game below that the detective and doctor had managed to miss. At that point, a large, shorn headed bloke next to Sherlock stumbled sousedly into him, pushing him into John who stepped on the foot of the wily eyed adolescent next to him. The already frantic supporter took this as an invitation to participate in a friendly football brawl and shoved Watson back the way he had come, shouting indiscernible profanities. The following event provided all agitated parties an outlet for their energy.

After throwing the last punch, Sherlock dragged a disheveled John up by the shoulder, motioning for him to follow him out of the stands and away from the crumpled bodies around them.

In a slightly more calm environment, the two caught their breath in the concourse surrounding the stadium. A few passersby eyed them, grinning and sniggering.

John pulled out a handkerchief from his coat, mopping at his burst lip and flinching as he moved his sore jaw. He had fine lines pressed into his face of a man who had seen hardship and suffering yet there was a soft generosity and optimism that had withstood it all. Still, when called for, he could draw up proper feisty.

Sherlock dabbed at the small trickle of blood coming from a cut above his eye and dusted off his black trench. With high and raw cheekbones and broad eyebrows his face held but one expression usually: uninterested. Perhaps he may swing to bothered and in extreme cases, irritated. Other emotions were rare indeed and in his opinion, inefficient.

"Well, that was an absolute waste of a drab afternoon. I could have been at home watching crap telly." He decided flatly.

The rain dripped off his dark locks.

Still a little ruffled, John let his nerves spill out.

"Well I'm so sorry if I was trying to help you with this case that's been bothering you for three weeks." His sarcasm aired.

"The stadium was empty John. This is hardly the same circumstances. Might as well be in Sharga. I get the feeling you just wanted to come see the game you've put a little down on."

John's flush of anger withered to guilt and he looked away.

"My very first time…" He mumbled, earning a correcting look from Sherlock. "...in a long time but how that's any of your bloody business…What is Sharga?!"

The noise was still exceptional but at least they could hear each other which facilitated their normal bickering.

"Besides, they've already closed the bloody case and sent the accused, sorry, the confessed, to await trial at that mental hospital. So why worry about it?" John finished, examining a tear in his trousers.

"Whom we are going to see tomorrow by the way." Holmes threw in casually.

This brought up John's head.

"What? No. No Sherlock. You know I don't like those places. You go and I'll have a night in."

"It's a hospital John, you're a doctor. I thought you would feel right at home?"

Watson shuddered. "No. Mental bins have never been for me."

Sherlock let it go at that, he knew his faithful friend would concede to his curiosity eventually with the right incentive.

Straightening up, Sherlock redirected. "Well, now that we know the commonwealth are in good hands. Let's go home. I'm starving."

Sherlock sat, violin and bow in hand as he stared into the dying fire in the modest fireplace at 221 B Baker St.. John had gone to bed ages ago, leaving him with only his monstrously elaborate thoughts.

He thought of many things at once, sometimes simultaneously, sometimes skipping from one to the next then back and then onto something totally unrelated. The circuits in his brain endeavoring to make connections, categorize and store useful ideas and memories. But it never stopped, even when he closed his eyes to escape the constant feed of information. There were so many things to perceive, so much data to take in. The visual, sound, smell, taste and touch. All telling unnoticed stories. Then came process; to make accurate assumptions. Connections that somehow his brain would retain and easily recall when triggered.

It was only rarely in a dream, sometimes as he played the violin or when he could achieve a deep enough trance that he could sit in peaceful nothing. In a void that would allow him to rest and experience stillness.

Preoccupation. Mysteries and conundrums eased the brainstorm, focused it and directed it away from more troubling thoughts and memories.

John had said the football murder case (he had irritatingly blogged it as "the homicidal hoodlum") was completed and Sherlock was moaning about it because it had been too easy to solve. There had been nothing to solve. The suspect had called the police himself and when they had arrived at the empty stadium he was just sitting there looking pleased as punch next to the body. He confessed everything down to how he had laid into the victim with a folding chair just because the man was a reporter who had written a particularly harsh article about his beloved home club. The wounds of the victim were blunt force to the head but something had not been right. Even Molly had said the killing wound had not quite been as congruent with the angle the chair must have been swung from as she'd have liked. However there was enough damage done that she couldn't support her instinct. There was enough consistent with the shape of the supposed weapon that she had to write it up as a match. Oh yes the perpetrator, Ian Cook had been there. But between the information the bungling police and the bias media had gathered, it had left Sherlock unsatisfied.

In all the time he had had to explore the possibilities since, he had not been able to resolve it. Really, Sherlock was vexed at his lack of focus, which surprised him because his usually unrelenting focus was one of the more wearisome attributes he possessed.

There had been a lull in any interesting cases and so he was forced to look into ones he would normally dismiss as too fickle or resort to studying subjects that may or may not come in handy in future investigations. He'd spent hours in the kitchen at his crude lab set up, desperate for information to feed his starving brain. He had chosen mushrooms. Studying the toxicity and rate of absorption of different poisonous agaricales.

The carbon stain from the unintentional fire on the wall and the shadow still on the ceiling were a reminder of a slight miscalculation in his equation which he had drawn on the refrigerator with a marker. John had taken his lab notebook clear into the front room where it was completely inconvenient for Sherlock to be bothered to fetch it.

It should be simple, working out such a basic formula. But he couldn't get his complete efforts behind it. John had diagnosed him with a sort of emotional low or some rubbish.

He just wished there would be a cleverly executed, no pun intended, murder or crime of any sort come up. It wasn't just solving a puzzle, it was the thrill of the hunt and the sweet peril that may perhaps accompany it.

A pang of guilt about his lack of sympathy arose from somewhere, somewhere suppressed and forgotten in his conscious. These occurrences were uncomfortable and unwanted. Even the positive emotions. How did John describe sentiment? 'Warm and fuzzy'? Maybe that was Ms. Hudson. It didn't matter. In his experience, especially in his earlier years, particular emotions had proven to him to be useless, restricting and disappointing.

Now he sat, still contemplating the heat of the flames and the longevity of the warmth of the bricks after the fire would perish. Such information should surely come in handy at some point.

Casting his eye around he saw a jam-filled biscuit sitting on the lamp stand by him and he grabbed it and took a bite. His face wrinkled up as he spit out the barely chewed piece. Judging by the crumbly consistency and potent stale taste, it must have been there for weeks. Ridiculous.

He stood up and positioned his violin under his chin and walked to the window, playing a quick pack of sharp notes to soothe the beast of boredom inside him.

The relentless rain had now turned to snow that slowed its descent onto Baker Street. Sherlock watched the falling flakes appear and disappear in the light of the street lamps and he stopped playing. The first inkling of a possible theory forming as the fire continued to burn behind him into the deep, January night.

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 **Really feeling this out to see if I should keep posting! It's all finished in my head but I want to know if anyone else enjoys it! Please let me know!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

The fluorescent lighting lit the sterile, white walls trimmed in a sickly mint green. As they passed through the cold halls, distant crashes and undefinable shouts and wails echoed off the bare walls.

Sherlock, even as distracted as he was in his thoughts, noted John's stiff, awkward walk and how his gripped his jacket, pulling it more snuggly around him. Obviously unsettled by the asylum's ambiance. Such social stigma rarely put Sherlock off. What did, however, was John's fingers and cuffs. Although John still washed his hands like a surgeon, the man had left enough residual soot of the fireplace on his cuffs and notably up to his elbows. A band aid on the back of his dominant hand told the story of possibly getting caught on the sharp metal lintel inside the flue. One thing John never bothered with was the fire. He must have been searching for Sherlock's cigarettes again. Luckily for Sherlock, John gave up far too easily. Sherlock would have to find a new hiding place when they returned to the flat.

Turning a corner, the left wall gave way to windows looking into a large, open common room. Contained inside, pajama-clad residents were seated at scattered tables, couches and chairs or roamed here and there undeliberately. Here, the more 'tame' inmates could be overseen without constant lock-down in a cell. However, still considered dangerous, many of them were restrained with hobbles and shackles.

A small desk sat next to the locked entrance of the room. The orderly who escorted them nodded to a stout, older nurse seated there who eyed them sternly as they approached the chipped, whitewashed door to the common room.

"Did you check your mobiles in at the front?" She asked curtly.

John nodded quickly, frowning.

The man escorting them removed a large, crowded key ring and selected one and opened the heavy metal door for them to enter. Sherlock and John followed him around obstacles, be they chairs tables or blank patients.

Perpetual observation flooded through Sherlock's thoughts. He could most assuredly give information on each resident in the room. The stories to be deduced behind each patient were mildly interesting and he could guess them without seeing a file or chart.

One man sat at a table, a mess of cracker crumbs amassed in front of him as he mumbled and arraigned them. Stocky set and looking disappointedly at the crumbs in front of him had arranged them into a circle and made diameter lines through it.

Another man leaned forward in his chair, almost to the point of tumbling to the floor, straining to see the program on the screen. The channel was tuned to horse racing. He gripped a torn piece of paper in his hand, like a hopeless gambler. Many other deductions; their occupations, family life and history could still almost be guessed, even in this institutionalized state.

Yes, in this place, he wouldn't be bored for at least half a day. He should come here more often.

They came to the far side of the room where tall windows overlooked the damp lawns, islanded with melting snow below. Sitting in the dull light of the morning, Ian Cook fingered through a football magazine, tattoos visible on his forearms and up his neck. A goofy, half smile twitched on his face until the approaching visitors caught his attention, then his cheeks fell flat.

The orderly checked his watch. "I'll be outside when you blokes finish." He told them and left.

Sherlock plopped down on the threadbare chair across from Ian. John looked around, finally deciding on a scuffed plastic chair in which he sat slowly, as if it were covered with flesh eating bacteria.

Leaning back easily, Sherlock waited, letting the man in front of him perspire and wriggle, giving Sherlock a moment for assessment. His eyes only flickered for seconds, drawing conclusions and assumptions from the visible facts parading in front of him. Religious shower taker, '80's rock enthusiast, had visited France in the past four months, broken nose at a young age, recently had a root canal but perhaps allergic to local analgesics...

"Ian." Sherlock prodded playfully. "You didn't do it did you?"

Taken back a moment, Ian blinked. Then his mouth started working before any sound came out. Finally, averting his eyes to the sporting magazine in his hands, the inmate managed.

"It looks like a good season 'innit? We've 'ad a rough go of it but we might be promoted this year gov."

The man's thick cockney clearly stating his birthplace as well as many other tells.

Keeping his deep voice relaxed, Sherlock leaned forward on the table.

"The murder Ian. You didn't do it did you?"

"Murder?" Ian asked dreamily.

Sherlock waited and thought. His original suspicions of Cook not belonging at Westerham now questioned.

"That Lofthouse bloke, he's gold you know." Persisted Cook.

"The murder you're in here for Cook. Daresay stadium." Sherlock's deep voice went monotone with impatience.

Cook's eyes blinked as if trying to recall. "Right, he was chatting with the fox you know. I got him with that chair then."

"But you didn't did you? I'm not interested in that anyhow, I want to know how you knew it was going to happen."

"They told me, my friends." Ian recalled fondly.

John remembered the psychiatric report about the man's schizophrenial voices that were very common in cases such as this. Now as the man sat there, admitting his crime yet again, he tried to imagine what Sherlock could possibly be unsatisfied about.

Sighing, Sherlock looked away, horrid boredom beginning to pound painfully in the back of his eye sockets. A movement caught his attention. On a wall across from them, there was a row of windows with some sort of inner curtain system. There was an gap parting the curtains and something crossed it, catching his eye.

Cook was still talking as Sherlock stood up slowly and began to walk over to the windows. There was another room on the other side but on the glass there was something. A design in the glass? Delicate, curved like calligraphy but he could decipher no words. The shadow, someone, passed by the perhaps five inch opening on the other side again.

Sherlock looked around on the surrounding wall and spotted what he wanted. A control panel possibly for the curtain which would need only a winch affixed to open the curtain.

Walking swiftly back over to a bewildered Cook he snatched the magazine and began rolling, bending and creasing it. Then he approached a hollowed eyed older patient and spoke quietly to him. The man nodded and followed Sherlock back over to the insertion panel that manually could retract the curtain. Affixed, the reformed magazine now acted as the winch. Sherlock began to crank, demonstrating for the assisting inmate who smiled and then took over, the veil beginning to part from the middle, widening the gap.

The next windows were revealed showing a more elaborate and intricate design, flowing from the first. Against the stark, institutional setting of the rest of the room, it was very out of place.

Up close, Sherlock could see it was not etched in the glass but some sort of grey-white marker. As he had predicted, it was written from the other side of the far glass that sandwiched the curtain.

None of the staff had yet noticed and the persistent patient grunted as he pulled at the makeshift handle doggedly.

Sherlock walked along with the moving curtain a few feet to see the finally exposed window on a far side. In the dim room on the other side of the glass, a shorter figure stood there perfectly still in an old, faded blue terrycloth bathrobe, with the hood pulled far forward.

The window was at waist height, showing only the waist up of the person holding a marker in their right hand. A small, slender hand. In the shadows of the hood he thought he could make out a feminine chin, lips and a messy clump of light hair protruding. A woman? This institution was supposedly to be all male. Her lack of movement catalyzed the uneasiness in the air. Other patients in the room were looking over now silently as was John who had turned in his chair. The change in the room finally attracted the attention of the neglectful orderly who had been chatting up the nurse just outside and he hurried back in.

"Oi, Montgomery! Get away from there!" He shouted.

The curtain system was now fully retracted and had arrested its progression but Montgomery continued to tug and pull despite that.

The orderly huffed into the room, the nurse was peeking in behind him on the phone paging for assistance. Sherlock ignored the orderly who snatched the mangled magazine from the inmate. He was still watching the girl who had not moved behind the window.

With some curse laden threats and two additional men who had arrived, they managed to drag Montgomery away and began closing the curtains again. The strange figure disappearing.

Sherlock crossed to one of the men who was still restraining a panting Montgomery.

"Who was that?" He asked flatly.

The dark haired man deftly ignored the detective, earning him a flash of disdain from Sherlock. Turning on his heel, Sherlock began to head for the door, prompting John to hop up and follow.

He had just caught up when Sherlock bent over and whispered something to the inmate with the crackers.

The man's eyes widened and he stood up, shouting. Sherlock then walked over to the TV, changed the channel from the horse races to a colorful puppet show for children. The intent residents were obviously disturbed and began to row with each other. John watched, stunned. The room was beginning to buzz and hum like an upset beehive. The tension felt by the others escalating the disturbance until the room was in mild chaos.

The orderly who had accompanied them rushed by, bumping into Sherlock as he headed over to two fighting inmates, "You two better step out while we sort this!"

Sherlock and John slipped out the door as two more men dressed in white hurried past them, diving into the common room.

Instead of turning the way they had come, Sherlock veered left, continuing down the hallway. John spotted the muted smirk playing at his friend's lips and glanced behind them.

"I'm sorry, did you just start a riot in a mental institution for inmates?" he asked.

Unbothered, Sherlock said, "I believe so, yes." He looked down and brought out the overwhelmed key ring searching it's inventory.

"Um, where did you get that?" John frowned, scolding himself silently for still being shocked at his eccentric friend's actions. Sherlock failed to reply as he kept glancing from the ring to the doors on either side of the hall.

John's common sense almost wanted to chuckle at Sherlock's hunt through the dozens of keys but he also had learned that an uncanny ability to do the impossible was common with Sherlock Holmes so he waited and watched.

Stopping short at a door, Sherlock settled on a key and it easily slid in the lock and he turned it, the door giving way. With an exasperated shrug John gave up, resolving to let the explanation behind this trick slide.

Sherlock did not seem to notice, his eyes fixed, looking into the room, the narrow slit of light aligning him vertically he said, "Wait here." And went into the room.

John nodded, relieved as the strange person in the window had given him the creeps; reminding him of a low budget horror film in which the possessed child crawls out of the tele or something.

As Sherlock entered, he felt something at his feet and a clumping sound made him look down at the floor by the door. A pair of old army boots, minus the laces hindered the door as he opened it. He inched through it, into the barren room and shut the door behind him.

It was a corner room and so had the reinforced windows on two of the walls but the lights remained off keeping the room gloomy.

He looked to his left, where he had spatially placed where the windows adjacent to the other room would be. There the odd person stood facing him hauntingly, right hand still holding the pen but her arm was now dropped at her side. The hood had fallen back a bit, unleashing a tangled pile of blonde hair that looked as though it hadn't had attention in days. A disheveled fringe hung obstructing her eyes and passed her cheekbones. He couldn't see her eyes but knew she was looking right at him. Although his senses did not shrink as he had observed the average person's senses did to fear or wariness, he did feel a twinge in the air which induced intrigue.

The bathrobe went down to her calves, exposing dirty, bare feet. She was in her twenties somewhere he guessed, probably younger than he by the look of the skin on her hands.

"Hello." He chimed his noncommittal greeting, stepping further into the room but keeping his eye on her.

She said nothing, keeping her peculiar silence. Sherlock glanced at the windows where he had seen the designs from the other side. The illustration continued onto all the available glass. A colleague of symbol-like strokes intertwined and moving together to make a larger abstract picture.

He tried to engage again, "Your drawings. They are very interesting."

At this there was a falter in her frozen state, her head slightly turned to where he had gestured. She brought up a hand and brushed at the barricade of hair in her face, one muddy-brown eye peeked through. Wide and cautious it looked at the windows without recognition.

Stopping near the exact center of the room, Sherlock could get a better view of the whole picture from this angle. Was it a picture? He could not see any specific objects, just the swirl and evolution of it's current, like waves in an ocean.

"What is your name?" Pushed Sherlock, beginning to become impatient.

"I didn't draw it." Came the voice, deeper and more hollow than expected from such a slight frame. Like a rich note from a cello. But even more fascinating was the accent. American. A hint of a mid-western drawl.

"Oh really?" This had become interesting again, "Who did?" He helped her along.

Not looking back at him, the girl pointed at her reflection in the window in front of her.

Sherlock had to stop himself from smiling, this was fun. "Do you know what she's drawing?"

There was an eerie silence, and the girl seemed to tremble slightly.

"Yes." She whispered finally, "It isn't for you."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded unoffendable. He took a step towards her and she turned back to him, watching him cautiously. She pulled her robe tighter around her and withdrew, as if he were a sudden nippy draft.

To distract her he motioned to her feet, "You don't have your shoes on?" He left it open ended.

Not looking down she said simply. "I like to feel the sand."

Each response he noted, taking it to be another piece of a shaping puzzle. _If_ there was a complete picture to finish was yet to be seen. Here or on the windows. However, he decided that the momentary amusement was worth the time that he may be wasting. For now.

He glanced at the polished floor then noticed the girl take a careful, awkward step in his direction.

He waited, content to see what would happen. She began to move slowly, almost like one would on wobbly stones in a river. Her arms would bend slightly against an imagined imbalance, the sleeves receding down thin forearms marked with bruises and scabs. After a few seconds of this strange display, she stopped about 2 feet from him. The one visible eye now filled with intensity instead of confusion and she studied his face.

Something about the scour bypassed his confidence for a brief moment and he blinked vulnerably. Somehow, he felt a abnormally competent researcher behind this pitiful exterior. Only 5' 4" by his estimation, she came up to the middle of his chest.

"The green in your eyes has been washed away. Did the rain do that?" She asked quietly.

He furrowed his brow in a brief moment of contemplation then brushed it aside for a mindless rant.

"The rain tells her what to write. Like a riddle that never ends she has to draw the answer but it's never enough. They just want more and more." She rambled.

Now he felt the weird. Looking away from her glaring, sullen eye he then noticed a compacted, single drawing on one of the exterior windows.

He started to walk over to study it when the girl cried out, "No! No, please. Please don't go near the walls."

He looked back at her, startled. She was reaching out to him, beckoning for him to return. Her robe slightly opened, she was only wearing a small white t-shirt and a pair of men's boxers. Still she looked highly alarmed at his approach to the windows.

"Why?" He asked nonchalantly.

"You'll tip the building over! Please. I don't want to fall!" The panic was breaking in her voice.

He ignored her request and stepped to the window, fully viewing the diagram curiously. With this she screamed, falling to the floor hysterically and reaching out for something to hold onto as if her fear was real.

Sherlock turned to observe her, unaffected, and then walked past her thrashing form to the door.

He slipped back through, muffling the girl's howling with an echoing slam.

John's concerned face looked to him expectantly then back at the door but Sherlock began to walk back down the hall.

"Let's go." Was all Sherlock allotted him.

Sticking his thumb back in the direction of the door, John demanded, "What happened in there?! What was that all about?"

Sherlock began to pull his gloves on and, as they passed the nurse's empty desk who was inside the common room assisting the orderlies. Sherlock dropped the keys onto it.

"She's not insane." Sherlock informed John.

Baffled, Watson stuttered, "Who? Her!?" He motioned behind them again. "You have got to be kidding. Sherlock, she's probably the biggest nutter in here!"

"We shall see." Was all Sherlock offered as they left the lobby of the asylum. Both glad to be enveloped by the fresh winter air.

 **Note: Any deductions made I have basis for (or I think I do) and I should explain them at the time or later.**


	3. Chapter 3

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

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The sleek, silver sedan pulled up to the prestigious ski resort, fresh white snow lightening the night. A man emerged from the double doors, bundled in a heavy coat and, even though it was late, wearing broad sunglasses. He slipped into the awaiting door held by the driver who quickly closed it behind him, got in and the car pulled away.

They descended through the majestic mountains on the tight, winding road. The man in the back of the car watched the landscape roll by, snow laden trees almost brushing the windows, then a break would reveal the breathtaking expanse of the mountain range lit by the emerging moon.

The quiet awe was interrupted by a muffled disco ringtone. The man felt inside the coat until he pulled out the lit phone.

"Yes." He said expectantly. "Already? That is refreshing."

A brief pause.

"Don't be overconfident. I am just leaving Courchevel now and I'll be back in London by tomorrow. I want results or someone to pay for the lack of them and you are by no means exempt."

With that, Moriarty disengaged the call and looked back outside.

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2:47am-the time ticked by on the mobile phone resting on the desk. The man seated there was motionless, staring at the bookshelves that lined the facing wall of the darkened office.

Leaning on his elbows, his fingers were interlaced, and resting against his lips. A well-groomed, trim beard framed his handsome face that was now vacant save the sharpness in his eyes.

On the walls of the office hung framed diplomas, degree and honors declarations: Gareth Glass doctoral of psychiatry, experimental psychiatry, cognitive behavioral neuroscience and forensic psychology. Fellowships and awards with gleaming seals and institutional crests.

2:48am the time read now. He glanced down at the phone and sighed, then pushed himself up to standing. Busily he began to move about, gathering items and setting them on a small tray: small cup into which he put 2 smooth tablets; 2 pieces of paper; a bottle of water and a stem of plump green grapes.

An unexpected knock at the door gave him a start and he bumped the cup off the desk. Irritatedly, he ran his hand through his combed back, slicked hair.

"Who is it?" he growled.

Through the door came, "It's Dr. Monroe." the woman's accented voice said.

Sighing deeper he knelt on the floor to search for the pills. The door opened and the woman in her late thirties put her head in.

"Can I help you Dr. Monroe?" He inquired impatiently looking around the floor, inwardly scowling that he had left the door unlocked.

"Oh I just thought I heard someone in here. I didn't know you were here this late and I wanted to check..." She trailed off, watching him recover the tablets and return them to the tray.

"Yes I'm here quite often, now is there anything else?" He asked curtly.

Hesitantly she stepped into his office and asked, "Are you going to see Roswell?"

Without looking back at her he nodded and picked up the tray.

"Dr. Glass, a dosing at this time of night? I don't remember it on her regiment. Isn't it irregular?" She ventured meekly.

Suppressing his reaction of anger he took a deep breath.

"Dr. Monroe, I know you are new here at Westerham, please attend to your patients and I shall attend to mine."

"At least let me go with you. Safety protocol requires..."

Gareth cut her off. "As managing director of psychiatric health I inform you that I am well aware of protocol. I also am very capable of diagnosing and administering treatment to my wards. If you have any reservations you are welcome to look at my degree certificates here from Oxford and Stanford. Where did you graduate from remind me?" His subtle ridicule making her glance away in intimidation.

"Kerrwich." she said weakly, knowing her institution of study was in no way as prestigious as his.

He smiled faintly.

"Ah. Well done. Now please attend to your duties." He ordered with subtle victory and almost pushed her out of the way as he left the office.

Gareth's pace was swift as he moved through the deserted halls. Energy conserving lighting provided illumination every thirty feet or so and he moved from light to darkness to light again. At security doors he stopped to be let through by drowsy guards. His destination took him to an area under construction. Large spans of clear, plastic curtains hung from the ceiling and the flooring was being removed leaving cold, dusty cement. He moved around an air compressor and concrete mixer and to a door in the corner, opening it with a key on his personal key ring.

A sign on the wall next to the door signaled caution, that the resident had proven to be hostile.

The room was dark except the moonlight coming through the window at the opposite side from the door. The tiny space only had a bed, table and chair and as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness he called out calmly.

"Honor?" He heard a rustling of material on the bed.

Walking unconcerned he crossed over to the table and sat the tray down. He felt for the switch on a wall lamp and the florescent light flickered on.

Huddled in the corner on the narrow bed, the girl was cocooned in the bulky robe. With white knuckled fists, she pulled the hood down, hiding her face. Ignoring the tenseness that gripped the air, Gareth walked over to the bed which had no blankets, just a covered mattress.

"Honor, it's me Sean." He spoke softly.

At this she balled up even tighter and a pleading, "No?" escaped from the folds of the hood.

Carefully, he sat down. "Don't be like this. I brought you a treat if you will behave and take your medicine." He bribed like a parent would a resistant child.

He reached out and pulled at the hood which slid back, the jumble of stringy hair still hid the girl's face.

Frowning, Dr. Glass pulled the bathrobe away completely and assessed her.

"We have some work to do don't we? I'm gone for three days and… Well they said you refused to eat again today so I brought you something special. I know you fancy grapes."

Honor began to shiver, a low whine sounded in the back of her throat. Gareth reached over to reposition her to face him and she jerked away defiantly. He set his jaw.

"Now look, if you don't take the tablets I can give you an injection. It's up to you."

Getting up he went over to the tray and retrieved the water and tablets. He returned to the bed, sitting closer this time and offering the medication.

"Here. Take them." He ordered.

"No." She turned her obstructed face away.

Impatience was shifting into anger, yet deeply, he'd almost hoped she would resist.

He grabbed her chin, squeezing at the edges of her mouth and she grabbed at his fingers and arm trying to remove them. Finally she had to open her jaw to relieve the pressure. Quickly he pushed the tablets to the back of her mouth and brought the bottle to her lips, water pouring down her chin. Then he let go.

"There, that wasn't so bad was..."

Honor spit the water and pills back out, spraying Dr. Glass in the face. Water dripped from his hair and he wiped at his cheek with his sleeve.

Gareth's features darkened and his eyes leveled to hers. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her over to him so swiftly she couldn't react until he held her back to his chest, his left arm pinning hers tightly.

A startled yelp escaped her and then she began to struggle and scream hysterically. With a slight movement of his grip he put pressure on her arm.

"Hold still." He said into her ear and pushed harder on her arm.

Her movement wore down until she was just squirming weakly. The doctor felt inside his coat pocket and brought out a small, damp swab and prepped an exposed spot of skin on the inside of her elbow. Then he felt again for the syringe in the same pocket, removed the lid with his teeth and pressed it into her skin. At the insertion of the needle, Honor stiffened but didn't fight. He removed the syringe and tossed it onto the nearby table.

He held her until felt her muscles begin to relax and her breathing soften.

"There you go. It makes you feel much better doesn't it?" He said, still cradling her with his one arm and with the other he swept the hair from her face, examining her pupils.

Gradually her countenance changed. The wild, paranoid, frightened patient was now calm, unconcerned and content.

"I told you I would help you Honor. Help you focus and get better." His words we almost tender. "Did you finish your therapy exercises?" He inquired suddenly.

With a small smile on her lips she pointed to the window next to her. He let her go and moved over closer to where he could see her scribbling swirling around the dirty glass.

He searched it.

"The answer. Where is it?"

Wobbly, Honor leaned over to the corner nearest her. Tapping a depiction with her fingertips. Gareth squinted. "You know I can't understand when you distort it like this...oh, there it is...yes. Brilliant. Very good. You are getting better!" He congratulated her, taking a notebook out of his pocket and writing vigorously.

Then he came to sit by her again, this time he moved all the hair hindering her face. Looking at her for a moment he exclaimed quietly.

"You are so beautiful."

He took in her exquisite features hungrily. She said nothing, but an intoxicated smile pulled at her cheeks. Tracing her bottom lip with his thumb he was met with no resistance and pulled her face to his, kissing her.

* * *

Dr. John Watson turned his key in the latch and opened the street door to their flat. Juggling the shopping from one arm to the other he made his way to the stairs, up to the apartment door and into the kitchen. Setting the bag down with a sigh of relief, he began to unload it and put it away in any spot unoccupied by chemistry and lab equipment.

Still before noon, he did not expect to see his flatmate for another hour or so, so he brought out a bag of cheese footballs and looked around for a place to stash them.

As he had found in the past, nothing was off limits in Sherlock's mind. Even toothbrushes. Not that Sherlock had used it to brush his own teeth but to clean the tire treads of a car found in a landfill for evidence samples, returning it from whence it came thereafter. John had not been informed for days.

Sniffling, John blinked, his eyes feeling slightly irritated. He went into the living room, over to one of the built in cabinets under the bookshelf and shoved the bag way back behind a random collection of rocks that Sherlock hadn't bothered with ever since they had moved in the apartment. Nor explained their significance.

Smiling to himself John then sneezed suddenly. He only wondered for a moment, concluding it dust related, when he heard Sherlock's door open so he dashed to the other side of the room slumping onto the couch and pulling out his phone innocently.

Shuffling out in erroneously buttoned pajamas, the straight faced flatmate yawned and blinked at the light from the window. His hair sticking out in all directions.

"Morning." Said John casually.

Sherlock looked at him blurry eyed then moved over to the corner, opened the cabinet and fished out the cheese balls, tearing into them. John's face dropped.

"Wh...how." He refused to ask, he just stated.

Emotionless, Sherlock looked up at him.

"Hmmm? Oh, I heard the door, the crumple of the bag and here," He pointed to the faded red designed carpet. "You've stepped on a jammy biscuit and trailed it right to where you buried the treasure. There's still a bit of nasal discharge on the cupboard door from your sneeze..."

A blur of movement sped through the corner of John's eye and he looked quickly, another sneeze seizing him, hindering his reaction.

"What was that?!" He managed when he had regained control, his eyes now watering.

Sherlock, fingers and mouth a fuzzy orange didn't look up.

"Cat."

"Cat...?!" John demanded.

With a mouth full of cheese balls Sherlock confirmed.

"YES cat. Well, _cats_." He clarified digging into the bag.

John felt for his handkerchief in time for a chain of sneezes.

"Sherlock, why did you bring...I'm sorry, how many cats?! I am _very_ allergic to cats!"

Sherlock had moved over to the table between the windows and pulled out John's computer, leaving orange dust as he typed.

"Oh, really?" He asked only mildly interested. "Experiment. I wanted pigs but you know how Mrs. Hudson feels about livestock in the flat. Two."

He leaned forward almost touching the screen with his nose.

With an exacerbated grunt John got to his feet and began searching,

"They need to go Sherlock. Here kitty kitty." He lured in a falsetto tone.

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible.

"What?!" John was getting on his knees, checking under the couch.

Sherlock elevated his voice slightly. "You'll never catch them John. They're feral."

Closing his eyes for restraint, Watson stood up. "I am going to take a shower so I can reopen my airway. Please remove the cats or I will call the fumigators."

And he huffed off down the hall.

The steam seemed to help. When he had finished, John stepped out of the tub feeling for the towel he had set out. His hand brought back a gas mask complete with eye protection and a large filtering piece lopsidedly oriented at the mouth. Obviously this was Sherlock's attempt at compromise. John shook his head and retrieved the towel and dried off.

After dressing he returned to the living room and found his flatmate had returned to his seat at the computer. Still typing furiously, Sherlock muttered under his breath. John walked over to the discarded cheese ball bag and picked it up, looking into its cavernous hollow mournfully.

"So what are you doing now?" He braved whatever reply may boomerang back.

"Searching public records for Westerham Asylum." Informed Sherlock.

Holding the gas mask lamely, John looked around.

"You didn't dispose of the cats I suppose."

"Of course not." The reply wasn't insensitive, it was almost surprised. "That mask is military grade. It will work wonders for the week duration of the tests."

John, who was looking the mask over, said with a start. "A week? You expect me to wear this around for a week?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wore it for a couple months during the SARS outbreak."

If John wasn't so angry, he would have probably laughed aloud thinking of Sherlock walking around London and getting groceries in a gas mask. At this point he thought it best to just move on so he walked over to look over Sherlock's shoulder.

Grimacing as he saw the state of the cheesy keyboard he said. "So you're still on about that daft american bird? It's probably just the place for her."

Sherlock was scrolling down a list but murmured. "While I agree that the majority of americans should be institutionalized, it would most likely bring down the global def-con, there is something strange about this scenario."

"Yes, why lock her up over here on our resources?" John reviled.

"Ah ha!" Sherlock exclaimed over John's comment.

"Strange that they should have a female in a predominantly male facility but apparently it isn't totally unheard of due to overcrowding. However there is no patient of her description, age, origin etc, listed. Very strange."

John reached around and removed the computer from the table agitatedly, not exactly clear on the reason for the 'Ah ha!'.

"To be honest Sherlock. I've had you scoff off more interesting cases than this, saying they're 'transparent' or 'boring'. Surely this isn't as morbidly fascinating as a good murder or national security crisis." He began to wipe at the sticky keys with his handkerchief.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, contemplating.

"Something very strange. I can feel it in my gut John."

"So what? So what happens if you're right and she's not crazy just misunderstood and the whole thing was a mistake that they tossed her into a center for the criminally insane? Still seems a bit lack-luster for you." John could feel the tickle in the back of his throat starting again. Sherlock stood up, tossing the gas mask John had set on the table back to his friend.

"Then I shall be properly disappointed. But I don't think so. I think, there is more to this. I'll be going back to Westerham and shan't be back until tomorrow. Please feed the cats the marked packages in the fridge. One is locked in my room and the other is roaming out there. Don't let them get mixed up, one of those control group things you know." Sherlock added as he disappeared down the hall.

Moments later he left without a word. Swearing under his breath, John rubbed at his itchy eyes. Just once he'd like to come out on top of a disagreement with Sherlock. He pulled his phone out, looking up the number for animal control. His fingers began to dial, then he rolled his eyes and put the phone back in his pocket. Maybe if he could catch them and keep them in a box or something. Swallowing his pride, he picked up the gas mask and put it on.


	4. Chapter 4

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

The muggy hospital-aroma air rushed out past Sherlock as he entered the building through a service door. Cafeteria food, some sort of chicken stew, chips and creamed potatoes. Cleaning products. Lemon scented bleach agent. His analytic processing mind marched constantly in the background.

Gaining access to the secured facility was hardly more difficult this this time, even if it was unofficial. It was designed to keep the inmates and patients _in_ and stressed less on keeping others _out_. A place like this was bound to have services or deliveries of some kind and sure enough a rubbish truck pulled up to the outer gate checkpoint shortly after Sherlock's arrival. Knowing where the cameras were from the last visit and that the same guard at the entrance had a thing for gaming on his phone, Sherlock simply had to stowaway on the opposite side of the truck as it rumbled through the gate. After that he acted as though he belonged there, easy to do wearing coveralls as a workman would. He found a convenient electrical box, opened it and looked busy until he could slip into the employee entrance. This took little effort; all of grabbing the locking door after a gaggle of female workers exited, distracted in their conversation.

Now he strode down the hall confidently following the, to him, obvious trail to his destination. Worn linoleum, tile and doors where foot and hand traffic frequented. Not to mention the 'Staff Locker' signs. Calculating his visit during shifts he didn't encounter a soul.

Entering the door, he was greeted by what he had expected: a staff prep room. Funding at a notable low apparently as the area was in dire condition. Complete with dented and broken locker banks lining the peripheral walls, they in turn lined with benches. Off to the side was a filthy toilet area, and a couple of tables with exactly two stable chairs out of five.

Walking over to a particular cabinet he started to shed the coveralls. Sherlock examined the wear markings around the dial lock's numerical face and quickly deciphered it's combination and opened it on his first try. He took in the items the locker contained and frowned. Poor candidate. The uniform would be the right size judging from, again the wear of the wear of the shackle on the lock. It has been pulled to a certain angle so a taller employee could see it. Also the papers and pictures were hung near his eye level. However one of the papers showed the man's work schedule which would have him there for the night shift which would begin at 18:00 hours in 72 minutes. It may be cutting it too close. He left it open and tried the next one, this one the uniform was missing. Judging from a pile of discarded dry cleaning tickets which dated every 5-6 days the employee had it out for laundry.

He looked back to the first one and decided to take the risk. Quickly he changed into the uniform, semi-clean but a light aftershave smell about the collar. Phil Anthony. Keen on a cafeteria worker. Sherlock noted the extra mints, bottle of economy scent and pile of cookie wrappers with little flirty notes written on them. Irrelevant.

He finished cinching the black belt. Phil had put on a little extra weight recently judging from the jump in the used prong holes, no wonder with all those cookie wrappers. He closed the locker. Observation and educated assumptions, the cycle continued to turn.

It didn't take long for him to locate the orderly from the day before. From the man's fingers and aroma he knew him to be a chain smoker and would likely be in one of the smoking areas clearly marked on the fire escape plan on the wall. Shadowing the most convenient one he didn't have long to wait before the man went out for a quick smoke. He then followed him discreetly to into a restroom. Instead of the urinal, the man took a stall, intently watching a sports report video on his phone.

Casually, Sherlock slipped into the stall next to him and could see the key chain laying on the floor, still attached to the belt loop of the man's pants now about his ankles. Sherlock reached behind him and flushed the toilet then expertly lifted the keys without drawing the attention of the man.

Seconds later he was down the hall and had turned the corner, looking for the door. Her door.

He passed the common room from before, noticing Ian Cook, still in his spot reading a different football magazine.

 _'A chair indeed.'_ Sherlock thought shaking his head.

Soon he stood at the door and brought out the keys. Easily he had known yesterday which out of the myriad of keys had been the right one. He had noticed when he and John were following the orderly, he simply kept the keys in, mostly, the order of the doors they had encountered. Now Sherlock could just remember what the key looked like and found it quickly.

Such things were easily predictable, human nature and laziness, habits and commonalities.

He heard voices approaching from behind him and so he hurriedly unlocked the door and went in, careful to close it soundlessly. Then turning around he felt a small twinge of surprise.

The girl was indeed there. But she was not the eerily lurking, frowzy haired and psychotic mannered thing he remembered.

The girl was sitting, well postured, in a plastic chair next to a second one. Watching him, her long blond hair was brushed and pulled back from her face neatly, hanging to her waist. Her large brown eyes were bright and honest. Indeed she would be considered very attractive he acknowledged.

An extraordinary metamorphosis from the creature he had first met.

She wore a freshly laundered grey t-shirt with a generous v-neck and again, men's boxers. The black boots were slightly visible under her chair and her petite feet were still dirty he noticed.

"Chastity?" She said expectantly.

Her voice was level and controlled. It took him a moment to realize she spoke it as a person's identity. She didn't wait for him to reply.

"Hurry, we're going to be late." She waved him over, patting the seat of the chair beside her.

He hesitated looking over at the windows. The writings were gone, he cursed silently. It was his main reason for returning. If he could have taken a couple of photos with his phone the other day when he had the chance, he would have appeased his inquiring mind and moved onto a more important and gratifying case. He had let himself be distracted by a fruitless conversation with this girl and didn't study the drawings enough to rely on his memory. He was back where he had started.

He looked back at her, tempted to scold her for wasting his time before leaving when she spoke first.

"You know I'm not the one with the 8am bio-chem final. It's up to you but to be honest I think you'll need all the time you can get. Your oxidative phosphorylation is a little hinky."

The girl wore a teasing smile.

' _Hinky.'_ Without knowing why, he was suddenly interested again.

She was clearly having some delusional daydream or memory and was assimilating him into its story-line. Rationalizing that he may get some information at least out of her he decided to go along with it for the time being and walked over, sitting down next to her.

"I'm...Chastity, and you are...?" He tested the fragility and boundaries of her conviction of reality.

Her smile faded somewhat as she looked confused for only a moment then smiled smugly.

"Actually, with that horribly imitated British accent I was going to ask if you thought you were Gandolf."

It was Sherlock's turn to look concerned but she elbowed him playfully.

"I'm kidding. I suppose since we ARE sisters and having lived together for 19 years we should be properly introduced. I'm Honor Roswell." She offered her hand and a straight face.

"And you are not taking this exam as well?" He explored, supplying a lame handshake.

"Um, I clep tested out of it. Remember? Our first semester here. That's why I got to sub when the professor was absent. Put you in the corner for kicks."

Sherlock was watching her, still fascinated by the differences displayed between yesterday and today. Whatever was in play here was intriguing indeed. Physically she was still several pounds underweight and her skin pale. But now there was a bit of color in her cheeks and she held herself with good posture and confidence. Manic poles perhaps?

She had not groomed herself. He could tell by the position of the plastic barrette in her hair and the angle of the cut of her nails. This being the case, she was harder to read as most of the visual clues would be characteristic to the person who did the grooming.

Honor's eyes flickered to his chest.

"Did you know you have syrup all over your shirt? And I just parallel parked this beast so we can't go back." Her worried face lightened.

Turning she reached for his top button. Instinctively he almost moved away. Maybe it was her incompetent and naive state, but he decided allowed it.

She unbuttoned the white shirt quickly then felt under her chair and brought out another white t-shirt, tossing it to him.

"There! Sean left that and I've been meaning to give it back to him. It's a guy's but at least it doesn't have goo all over it."

Sherlock shrugged off the orderly shirt and pulled on the t-shirt. It fit a little tight and there was a faint cologne smell, an expensive brand compared to the previous shirt which was cheap and tangy. All this time his brain working, gathering and combining the data, searching for parallels.

The sweet, familiar taste of epiphany swept him and he said abruptly.

"Will you show me how to do one more problem?"

She studied him, sensing the somberness in his tone.

"Sure." She consented.

He stood immediately, pulling a paper out of his pocket and crossing over to one of the windows. The equation from his mushroom experiments.

Child's play if he could focus properly. He had brought it just in case he wanted to meditate on it again.

The marker was still there on the sill. He picked it up and wrote the data down then turned and offered her the pen. Honor had gotten to her feet and hesitantly followed him over. Looking at the pen, her face paled.

"I don't know..."

"You can't?" He challenged, disappointment rode the under current.

The confidence in her eyes had come to some sort of foreboding but she took the pen from him gently. Her eyes darted, followed by heavily lashed lids.

"This is not simple bio chem..." Her voice lowered and stopped, she set her jaw.

The pen hovered an inch away from the window, never moving. She was still, locked in the position he'd seen her in yesterday at the curtain.

Sherlock observed what outside looked to be a paralyzed, seized mind. But somehow he knew that inside, her thoughts were storming.

Less than a minute later, like an expert calligrapher, she stroked the lines gracefully. No intermediate steps, just a simple, concise answer.

"A football stadium, open air with lighting. January, empty after a game, a single man killed by a blunt object strike to the top of his skull. No one saw him attacked but the alleged weapon was a smooth rimmed chair. How did it happen?" He put the problem to her, producing pictures of the stadium and area of the scene on his phone. Also one of the victim's wound.

Honor gasped turning away. Her delicate eyebrows knitted together she stammered. "I don't know..."

He trampled the deflection, erasing his markings on the glass with a tissue from his pocket.

"Yes you do. Question. Gather facts. How did it happen?" He pressed each word.

"Did it rain...freeze the night before?" She asked softly.

He nodded.

"Ice, a chunk of ice...I guess...it's possible something could have fallen from an overhang?" She offered meekly.

He turned away from her and crossed back over to the chair, picking up his white shirt. "Accidental?" He called over his shoulder, buttoning up the shirt over the t-shirt.

"Possible but not likely. 1 in 3891." Came the distant reply.

Sherlock smiled, pulling on the staff shirt over the one she had given him and looked back at her. She stared at the glass. The marker tip still at the end of the last line of the answer.

He headed for the door. "Good." He said and left.

Glancing at the clock on the wall he noted the hour and headed for the office area of the institution. Fresh exuberance lifting his step.

It was after hours so the office staff would most likely have gone home by now.

He pulled out the key ring as he approached the darkened window of the office door. The key slid in easily and, of course, turned. He strode in, passing the empty desks in the outer room. Three desks, three female personnel judging by the objects on their desks. Two desks next to each other, the women don't like each other. Objects placed in a sort of physical barricade. Most likely the one talks about her grandchildren too much, touching a nerve because the other has none and has accumulated too many cats to compensate. Seven of them. The other stays out of the drama by pretending to be busy and often fakes phone calls he notes from the excessive papers with little information piled on her desk. The worn keys of the dialing pad are all mostly the same number, probably the speaking clock or her own phone.

Sherlock brushed this all away, zeroing in on a bank of filing cabinets. Unlocked, he knew they would be. All of their desks drawers were also unlocked, indicating a false sense of security.

 _Roswell_ , he searched. No file. Shoving the drawer closed with a slam he spun on his heel and went out of the office.

Rounding corners he finally came to the chemist room, a little old man sat on a high stool in the corner surrounded by high shelves laden in bottles. A half door separated them.

"Roswell." Sherlock said casually.

The silver haired man turned, his face questioning.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I'm here to pick up a schedule for Roswell?" Sherlock lied blatantly. "Orders from Dr..." Sherlock trailed off, acting forgetful.

"Glass?" The man offered slowly.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes that's the chap."

The chemist studied him for a moment. "He does her treatments himself. He keeps everything else in his office."

"And her files too I suppose." Sherlock said to himself aloud.

"Yes, I think so. All I have are her vitamins."

"Specialized ones." Speculated Sherlock.

"They just took them an hour ago. What is your name?" The man said, he was beginning to look suspicious. There was a buzz from his cell phone which Holmes could clearly see.

"Yes, they were dropped and trodden on." Sherlock covered smoothly but began to frown. John had told him to be a little more civil with people and it would get him better and faster results. Clearly this was not such a case and Sherlock read the nosy man quickly.

"You ride your bike to work! In January? Judging from your overly tightened bow tie and how many missed calls from 'Gillian' who is your wife, she is overbearing and insists you leave the car which would explain why you haven't retired at your age. Coming to work seems to be a better option, even if it means braving the elements."

The chemist's eyes widened but Sherlock continued.

"You've been at something you shouldn't but it's not the medication here, it's the chocolate cake your wife made that you ate as a passive rebellion. It was for a birthday, most likely a grandchild seeing the sprinkle still lodged in the chocolate smear on your collar. Why you would take cake from a child could be simply explained that it is a step child by an unapproved marriage, your only son. The ones in the family picture, the woman and two children, you've covered them up with a picture of your pet goat 'Pumpkin' pushed into the frame."

Sherlock decided that should be enough.

The man, clearly shaken blinked. "How did you know all of that?"

"I can read people. I bet the cake was worth it." He punted the civil part in at the end.

The man thought for a moment then went to a shelf and took down a bottle. "Quite so." He mumbled.

In a little, plastic cup he dispensed one tablet and hobbled over handing it to Sherlock.

"I don't recognize you."

"I'm new." Sherlock smiled warmly and awkwardly, then he was gone.

He dropped the key ring at the nurse's station and quickly returned to the locker room and replaced the uniform. Passing Phil Anthony on the way out he gave him a friendly nod, putting his blue scarf on as he walked through the exit door.


	5. Chapter 5

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **So sorry for all of the typos/mistakes! I'm horrible at proof reading my own work. Thanks for reading and I hope it's entertaining.**

* * *

John had switched on every light in the flat. Armed with a cover he had striped from one of Sherlock's pillows in an act of revenge and a cricket bat, he looked into the shadows under the bed.

Having no success catching the cat in the living room, he was trying his luck at the cat in Sherlock's room. John had heard the warning hisses and began to move things out from under the bed. Each item stranger than the last. An antique medical case complete with bone saw, a box of assorted substitute sugar packets (hundreds), a traffic light and finally he retrieved what looked like an authentic medieval mace.

The gas mask seemed to be helping but he was sweating profusely and breathing produced a darth vader sound.

He saw a glint of the cat's eyes and he prodded at it with the cricket paddle. Somewhere in the background he heard Mrs. Hudson.

"In here Mrs. Hudson!" He called back and laid down, trying to reach the feline who had edged back to the far corner.

Suddenly it charged him. Teeth flashing and fur blurring it skidded by him and into a pile of boxes in the corner of the room.

Growling in frustration, John swore and stood up. In the doorway was Mrs. Hudson and Molly Hooper, eyes wide at his vial declarations.

Suddenly he was strangely glad he had donned the mask as it muffled the specifics of his cursing and most likely shielded his face from the rabid claws of the cat. Abashed he blushed.

"Very sorry."

Mrs. Hudson gave a motherly smile.

"We thought you were Sherlock in here making that racket lovey."

Just hearing Sherlock's name seem to bring a bad taste to John's mouth.

Realizing he still had the mask on he took it off quickly.

"No. No. Sherlock is out for the night I assume."

He could clearly see Molly's face fall into disappointment.

Standing next to Mrs. Hudson, Molly dressed as if she were the elder. Her hair was swept up in a tight bun in the back of her head and she wore a frumpy sweater and non-flattering slacks that ended above her ankles. Looking down she clutched a brown paper bag.

"Well I've got the kettle on downstairs if you two want a cuppa." Mrs. Hudson said, giving Molly's arm a pat as she turned and exited the room.

Molly forced a smile. "Well I was just delivering this length of duodenum Sherlock asked for."

She said it as if bringing a plate of cookies.

John was also desensitized and nodded. "Splendid. Here, let's go to the front shall we?"

As they entered the seating area a cat yowled and climbed the thick drapery to the top of the bookshelves. John looked around for Sherlock's ever accessible gun.

"Oh! Cats! Lovely. I didn't know you had pets." Molly said enthusiastically.

"Well besides your random vampire bat or barracuda in the bathtub...we don't. I think they're more of...an experiment of which I prefer not to know the hypothesis of. I'm sure Sherlock will have them dissected within the week." John said.

Molly gave him a knowing nod and John sneezed.

"Allergic?" She asked.

"Mmhmm." He affirmed into his handkerchief then said, "Would you like to go out to get something to eat? I think I've had enough of the wild kingdom here."

Indecision crossed the girl's face briefly then she shrugged. "Why not? I've only had some crisps for lunch." She rationalized with a smile.

John was glad for the excuse to get out into the fresh air and took the bag from her.

"Oh I'll just take that. If I don't mark these things clearly Mr. Hudson tries to make them into sandwiches." He laughed casually.

This thought brought a bothered look to most of Molly's face but the default smile clung stubbornly.

After bundling up they waved goodbye to Mrs. Hudson on their way out. An hour later they found themselves sitting in a back street Indian cuisine place laughing over memories of childhood pets and their overly ambitious curry selections.

Then an awkward silence interluded.

Putting her half empty glass down, Molly dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

"Does it bother you? When Sherlock does...says unthoughtful things?"

John studied her. He could tell it was something she had slipped into some thought that was bothering her.

He cleared his throat. "Sometimes. Then I remember not to categorize him and compare him to an average person. Does he know better? Perhaps, but I don't think he means to cause any hard feelings."

Molly kept her eyes down. "I don't know. I think sometimes he does. I keep thinking maybe, if he cared enough, he wouldn't be like that...to his friends."

Leaning forward, John started to speak but caught himself. He knew what she wanted to hear but he felt a responsibility to her, he felt protective .

"Molly, I have found that in life, people do not change for anyone else but themselves. Not really. To have a friendship with the condition that a person has to change who they are is never a true friendship. You must decide if you can accept that person for who they are right now, good or bad."

He could see her really listening and considering his words. She pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear and then took another quick drink as if to distract from some unwanted emotions she was facing. He knew of her crush she had harbored for his friend, long before he had ever known him.

Sherlock had been tactless in his naive reveal of that at that fateful Christmas party the year before last. The strange draw Sherlock had was not for the tender hearted, and that was definitely what Molly was.

"I think that Sherlock cares very much...for us. I think he would do things for us that a normal friend would not. But, I don't think he will never stop acting the way he does...or saying the things he does. So it is up to us if that is something we can live with and repetitively forgive him for."

He was surprised when she looked up at him with a genuine smile. "John. You are a very nice person."

"So are you." he returned.

* * *

The countryside around Sevenoaks lay dormant and frosted in the mid-morning. Sherlock slowed his hired car as he looked for the driveway he should have come upon already.

A thick, leafless hedge ran along the narrow dirt road and almost hid the opening he sought. He pulled in and rolled up the hill to the two story country farmhouse emitting smoke from its chimney. A woman was out in the front garden and she straightened up at the sight of him. Her dress was foreign if not american. She wore a brown hide jacket and jeans stuffed into rubber boots. A knitted hat was pulled down almost to her eyes but Sherlock could clearly see the relation to Honor Roswell.

He shut the car off and got out.

"Can I help you?" The girl asked warily with the same american accent.

"Yes. I am detective inspector Lestrade," He delivered the well practiced con easily, producing the misappropriated badge. "Are you Charity Roswell?"

He didn't have to ask, he knew. Two to three years older, darker hair, but the resemblance was unquestionable.

" _Chastity_ Ashworth now." She corrected. He had suspected her to be married but she wore gloves that covered any band she could be wearing.

While there had been no direct record of Honor Roswell, there was a visitor's log book he had glanced over in the office and of course there couldn't be more than one unfortunate soul with _that_ name visiting another patient at the same institution.

"Of course. I am here on a routine inquiry we conduct on all patients at Westerham Asylum. Just keeping our records updated."

Chastity raised her eyebrows and set down the rake she was holding with a sigh.

"Okay." She said frowning. "What is it that you need?"

"I've just been moved to this department and so I am unfamiliar with most of the cases I oversee. I just want to know the facts of your sister's incarceration..."

"Commitment." She corrected him again, this time sharply.

"Commitment." He agreed. "What exactly is your sister's diagnosis? Why bring her here for treatment?" He hoped she would be quick and not ramble.

"Don't they have files you could research?" Chastity questioned him, her eyes suddenly tired, almost painful.

He picked his words carefully. "I wanted to verify the information personally. I found it abnormal for an american with no penal record to be placed in a British mental institution for the convicted." He stopped himself, remembering John's admonition to try to be more sympathetic. Attract more flies with honey than vinegar or something.

Chastity folded her arms defensively. "Couldn't you speak with Dr. Gareth Glass? He knows all the details. Actually, to answer your question he approached us with the offer to treat her here. Her diagnosis is as long as my arm. Multiple personalities, bipolar, schizophrenic, anxiety disorder...you name it, she's probably got it. Also, I think if your records are sketchy, Dr. Glass would be the one to ask about that."

"Do you go to visit her?" He decided to revert to his own vinegary methods.

A sadness tenderized her features. "Dr. Glass has counseled that we...wait. He said her condition is getting worse and he wanted to minimize any distractions." She said the last few words sorely.

He looked around quickly and said. "You are moving?"

Chastity blinked in surprise at the abrupt subject change.

"Yes, my husband's work visa is expiring. We are moving back to Idaho for now. I'm hoping, Honor will be able to come soon. How did you..."

"Idaho. Thank you that will be all." He was already on his way back to his car door before he finished his sentence. Honor's sister said nothing but watched him as he left.

* * *

The weak sun shifted through the sky, clouds racing as it lowered in the west. Rush hour traffic in the heart of London encumbered not only the narrow streets but the pavements as pedestrians hustled to catch their trains, cabs and file into the tube stations to get home.

It was Friday, so an influx of people going 'out on the town' compounded the push on the streets.

John walked quickly with the flow, his hands in his pockets and his jacket zipped up to his chin.

He had taken a job at a government sponsored medical call center and had just gotten off of work feeling unfulfilled. As much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to be bored as well and wishing for a new case to come up.

He turned on to Baker Street, significantly less crowded and he slowed his gait in relaxation. As he approached 'Speedy's', he caught sight of the shiny black car pulling up next to him.

'Well I did admit I was bored.' He scolded himself.

The back window lowered and Mycroft stared straight ahead expectantly. John sighed and walked around the back of the car, opened the door and slid into the seat next to Sherlock's brother.

"I wish you would call, honestly this draws more attention than a text." John shut the door.

Mycroft looked over at him arrogantly. "I was in the neighborhood and just had a quick question. Is Sherlock in Westerham?"

Shrugging, John said. "That's what he said. But can't you track his phone or something?"

"Thank you Dr. Watson. Have a good weekend."

That was it? The Holmes brother's sure had a knack for tact.

John got back out of the car which pulled away while he was still closing the door. He shook his head and walked the remainder of the way to his door.

Climbing the steps stiffly he looked at the mail that had been left for them by Mrs Hudson on the landing table outside the flat.

As he stepped into the living room, a swishing sound made him look at his feet. He was standing in a puddle of water about a meter wide.

Seated on the couch, with a docile cat purring in his lap, Sherlock wore the same uncanny stare as his brother.

"Unbelievable." John breathed aggravatedly. Sherlock did not reply.

Fetching a towel, John covered the puddle and sat down at the table with his laptop in hopes of distracting himself.

Silence prevailed for more than two hours when the bell rang. Muffled voices downstairs slowly became more audible and shortly Mrs. Hudson led Lestrade into the room. John nodded at him and Sherlock, interactive for the first time since John had been home, looked over at the policeman.

"Renovating your kitchen Lestrade?" He asked while still petting the cat.

"I don't even care how you figured that Sherlock." Retorted the graying man.

"Blatantly obvious. The paint in your hair and plumber's puddy under your nails, not to mention the brochures for a new cooktop peeking from your pocket..." Sherlock started.

"Really." Lestrade cut in. "I was just going to get your opinion on..."

"Choose quartz, marble is too porous." Advised Sherlock.

"No, what I want to ask you about is…"

"The church murder you are investigating." Sherlock returned the interruption. "I read about it in the papers. Examine the organist."

A look of shock froze on Lestrade's face, and he sputtered. "We were considering it a murder suicide...The organist? She's 70 years old!"

"68." Corrected Sherlock.

"She looks like my Grandmum!"

"She was infatuated with the vicar. When he got engaged to the other victim she, in a rage of passion, shot them both in the church." Sherlock was pinching at his nose, warding off an impending headache.

Lestrade almost looked angry. "How in the world did you deduce that?!" he growled.

"Some people talk way too much..." Sherlock started. John and Lestrade looked at each other. Knowing expressions revealing they were both thinking the same thing about Holmes.

Sherlock continued. "She was in every picture, gave several outlandish, telling interviews. In fact, one was in the church where she sat at her organ, fidgeting about with a spot while she was speaking. I'd wager you'll find some condemning evidence hidden inside there. Now go please."

Lestrade left promptly with a look of relief on his face.

John, tried to go back to his blog but couldn't keep his own questions to himself. "How in the world did you get that deranged cat to do that!?" He motioned to the lounging animal now stretched out with it's belly up.

"I gave it a vitamin." Sherlock replied simply and finally.

John pressed his lips together and turned back to his screen. He could feel the allergy symptoms taking hold of him.

After another two hours, only sniffling and sneezing interrupted the quiet.

John looked at the clock, 9:30pm, he felt like an early night. Getting up, he stretched.

"Goodnight Sherlock." He said and started for his room.

Sherlock jumped up, his sudden movement from the statue he had been startling John.

"Sleep? You're going to bed?" Sherlock looked concerned.

"Yes." John said.

Sherlock hurried over to him. "It's a Friday night John! Let's go out! But don't wear any cologne."

Looking up at his tall friend as if her were a stranger John stuttered. "G-go out?"

"I know just the place. Posh, trendy." Sherlock said with forced enthusiasm like a car salesman trying to sell a lemon.

John didn't have the energy for this. "No. I'm tired and I'm going to bed."

An hour later they pulled up to the entrance of the bar just off Piccadilly. There was an extensive que wrapping around the block out of sight. Sherlock hopped out of the cab and headed to the front doors. Stopping about halfway, he motioned for John to wait and they stood there for about five minutes while Sherlock texted on his phone.

Suddenly Sherlock started for the door again. John, tripping after him, managed to catch up.

"We aren't getting in here Sherlock. Look at that que!" Sherlock gave him an 'I know what I'm doing', glare and stepped up to the doorman, moans and protests rising from the line rising.

"Sorry mate, gotta get in line." The beefy man shook his head at Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned in, bringing out his phone and drawing the man's attention to it. A startled look of fear crossed the doorman's face and he opened the door quickly. Sherlock waved to John to follow and they entered, leaving the line in anarchy behind them.

Inside, the modernly decorated club was packed. Expensively dressed patrons mingled in the exclusive lounges and at the counters. John had not been to a place like this since before he had broken up with the rich girl from Kensington.

Sherlock stopped in mid step, looking around. An attractive server came up to them.

"Check your coat?" she smiled.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock replied, offended.

John shook his head at the bewildered girl who hurried away.

"Do you want me to order some drinks or something?" John offered after a moment.

"Not while I'm working John." Sherlock said dismissively.

"I knew it!" John burst angrily but Sherlock was inattentive.

Frustrated, John started to walk away but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder.

"I need you to go talk to someone for me." He said.

John was genuinely shocked, he had never known Sherlock to take an interest in picking up women before.

"Uh, sure. Um, who is she?" He tried to follow Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock leaned into him and pointed.

At a counter height table, three lovely girls stood around a man engaged in conversation.

"Which one is she?" John asked for clarification.

"Not them, him." Sherlock said shortly.

"Oh." John blinked. "What do you want me to say? Just that you're interested...?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "What? No. I just want you to distract him for me."

"Who is he Sherlock? Don't leave me in the dark."

"Dr. Gareth Glass. I just need a few seconds John." Sherlock almost pleaded.

John breathed out harshly. "Well, what do I say...?"

"Ask him for his number or something? I don't know just make it good. I'll be in his pockets."

"In his…?!"

Sherlock had disappeared from his side. Feeling his pulse change rapidly John took a deep breath. A moment later he stepped up to the table, the company all looked over to him as their conversation dropped off.

"Hello!" John pulled a stiff smile. "How is everyone!?"

He squeezed in to lean on the table in between a smoldery brunette and a tall blond. Their shock began to wear off and Gareth frowned.

"I'm sorry, can I help you?" The man asked John. His voice not friendly.

John thought frantically. "Um yes! Hello...again! Sorry! It's me, John Watson!" He tried to act genuine and confident.

The girls began to giggle to each other.

Narrowing his eyes, Gareth asked. "Do I know you?"

John caught sight of Sherlock who had appeared behind Glass, looking around bored.

"Wha...Yes? I mean yes of course. Uh, school I think it was! Glass isn't it?." John saw Sherlock look at him warningly and he shrugged weakly. This made Gareth raise an eyebrow.

"Really? Where?" He almost challenged.

The girls all looked at John, waiting for the drama that was unfolding to continue. Sherlock still stood casually and John couldn't tell if he was doing anything at all. How much longer did he need?

"Cambridge?" John took a shot in the dark.

A hard look set Gareth's jaw. "Hardly. I never studied there. Who are you?"

John knew the situation was decomposing quickly. Sherlock shot a look at him, making John guess that he needed a bit more time.

"Really...oh sorry my mistake." John conceded. "Well, oh! I know! It must have been a seminar you did. Recently...no, a while ago?"

The girls began to talk over him, about him. "Is he serious?" Laughed one.

"Crazy." Said another, laughing to Gareth as if she had made the most clever joke in the world. "Maybe you can help him baby?" She managed to Glass, still laughing.

Gareth was not laughing. He was looking suspiciously at John, making him uneasy. At this point John figured he had nothing to lose.

"Uh, look I was hoping if you were free sometime if you'd...can I have your number?" He blurted, locking his eyes on Gareth's.

All of their faces fell, Gareth blinked.

Sherlock disappeared.

"Well, that's alright then! Thanks anyway. Enjoy your evening!" John slunk away.

He headed for the door quickly, only wanting to leave, go home and go to bed. No, beat Sherlock with a cat, then go to bed. He felt his friend's presence fall in behind him and they retreated out the door, John waving down a cab.

The cab drove through the streets. There was no words exchanged for some time, then a cockeyed smile lurked on Sherlock's face.

"'Enjoy your evening?'" He quoted.

John elbowed him hard but Sherlock just released a reserved laugh. Despite his best efforts, John began to laugh too.

Finally John ventured to inquire. "About that puddle..."

Sherlock looked at him slyly. "I was watching ice melt."

The laughter started all over.


	6. Chapter 6

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Thanks for the review and for those who are reading! Hope it's not too slow going.**

* * *

John felt he had just fallen asleep when he felt himself being roused roughly. One eye opened, he perceived what he had been dreading. Sherlock, dressed and coated shook his shoulder.

"Wake up John."

Letting his bloodshot eye fall on his bedside clock, 5:23 am, John shook his head in unbelief and rolled over groaning.

Undiscouraged, Sherlock went to the other side of the bed and got down at eye level.

"John!" He persisted. "I need you to go with me to Westerham."

"No."

"Come on, don't make me get the rest of the melted ice."

John sat up like a jackknife. "You wouldn't dare."

Sherlock straightened up with a satisfied smile.

Mentally searching for something to defend himself with, John gritted his teeth. "I have to work in three hours Sherlock..."

"No you don't, I called in sick for you. Now get up and get dressed."

"What?!" To his own deplorement, he found himself swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Your brother was asking about Westerham yesterday you know." He called spitefully after Sherlock who was already out of the room. "I think you should just stay away from there!"

Grumbling he pulled at a pair of trousers. Sherlock stuck his head back in making John almost fall over trying to conserve his modesty.

"Did he. This is fantastic! Perhaps it is a national security crisis after all." Sherlock pondered with a giddy edge.

Exacerbated, John dressed and shuffled out of the room. Sherlock was waiting at the landing looking at his phone mumbling to himself.

"So which deranged inmate are we going to leave screaming in hysterics today?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at it. "Neither. We are going to break the yankee out of hospital."

John stood there for a moment letting this sink in. Then he turned on his heel, heading back to his room.

Sherlock hurried to grab him by the arm and usher him back around but John pulled away. "Absolutely not." He put his foot down.

Sherlock studied him. "John, when you say 'no' it usually means, 'yes please I've been going mad with dullness. Take me with you Sherlock!'"

John set his jaw. "No it doesn't. _Ever_ in fact. If you want to free that lunatic then call Mycroft and have the proper papers to do it so that you don't land yourself in prison. In fact, why don't you just check yourself in at Westerham for an evaluation. That I'd go with you to do. Maybe you and she could play checkers in your slippies together." John barked angrily.

Surprisingly, Sherlock looked crestfallen and John almost felt sorry to have said it.

Shoulders slumped, Sherlock nodded and looked at the floor. "Alright. You're right. I shouldn't have bothered you. I'll just go on my own." He clouded.

It reminded John of when he had told his little sister that there was no Santa Claus and the guilt thundered in his conscience.

Sherlock plodded down the worn stairway and the front door was heard to open and shut.

For a moment, only the sound of the clock ticking in the background sounded, then John grumbled and snatched at his jacket. He caught up to Sherlock who was just getting into a taxi.

John couldn't see his face, but somehow he knew that Sherlock was grinning, well as much as Sherlock would grin.

"Let's go." John ordered, warning Sherlock to not gloat.

Taking the point, Sherlock nodded. "I need to stop by the chemists." And they were on their way.

At the train station, they shivered waiting for their departure. John had finally calmed down enough to speak.

"So, from what I gather, Dr. Gareth Glass is this girl's psychiatrist?" His breath bloomed white in the air.

Sherlock nodded. "Honor."

"Pardon?"

Sherlock kept looking around. "Honor Roswell is the girl's name."

"Oh, sounds like, Anna? But Honour?" John emphasized.

"Precisely." Confirmed Sherlock.

John shuffled, trying to warm himself. "So, the whole thing at the club last night...?" He lead the answer.

Sherlock looked at the enormous digital clock impatiently.

"Oh? I needed to smell him, and copy his office key." Sherlock said unabashed.

John shrugged, he didn't know what he had expected.

The train rounded the corner and slid into the station and they boarded. They sat down and the train was soon off. John shuddered as he shifted in the seat. Somewhat of a germaphobe, he tried not to think of the innumerable rear ends that had graced the bench he now sat on.

Because they were heading out of London, the early train was almost empty.

"Smell him?" John finally couldn't help himself.

Sherlock gazed out the window. "Mmmm." he confirmed. "It is the same scent as is on this shirt Honor gave me."

Sherlock produced a plain white t-shirt from the depths of his coat.

"And this is significant how?" John asked.

Sherlock stuffed it back in his coat.

"Well he's in love with her." He said as if that explained everything.

Stranger and stranger John thought.

"In love? The doctor with his patient, his crazy patient?"

"Well clearly. And she isn't crazy. By definition. Look, remember last night. Glass is an exceptionally attractive man who could obviously have any woman he wanted, but he didn't even touch the ones buzzing around him. He didn't even bother to tidy his beard or wear a fresh shirt. But he was constantly checking the time on his phone. And guess what the his wallpaper was?"

John listened to the rant then tried. "Her?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, a picture of two hands clasped. His and hers."

"How do you know it's hers? And what if she does fancy him? Maybe she likes it there?" John felt prompted to try to talk his friend out of the whole thing.

Sherlock shook his head with conviction. "No. He has been drugging her to keep her seemingly deranged and subdued. I highly doubt it is a basis for a relationship. And I know it is her hand. Marker marks all over them as well." Was all Sherlock would say.

"What will you do if...after you've freed her then? Won't there be police or someone after her?"

"Yes." Sherlock spoke then checked out, his eyes intent on the space below the floor.

John left it at that and simply watched the city decline into winter countryside. His stomach growled and he realized he hadn't eaten breakfast. A cab was waiting for them at the station and they arrived at Westerham Asylum just before 8am. John watched to cab pull away after Sherlock scheduled a pick up roughly an hour later.

"Sherlock, won't we need the 'getaway' car waiting for us?" John was nervous again, he couldn't believe he had come.

Sherlock looked at him disappointed. "Never mind. Come along."

They walked up the stairs and went in. The lunchroom smell smothered out any appetite bothering John and they went to the front desk. The receptionist was applying a fresh coat of lipstick and smiled at them. "Good morning. How can I help you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm here to wrap up a case for the LCPD, on Ian Cook. I just need to question your chemist one more time." Sherlock told her, flashing some sort of badge that John knew was illegitimate in some way.

She looked confused for a moment.

"The superintendent would have to ok that but she's away for the weekend." The girl said apologetically.

Sighing impatiently, Sherlock pressed. "We called a week ago to schedule this. Now is there someone else who can give us the approval?"

Clearly intimidated, the girl picked up the phone.

"I don't know...I'll try." She began to dial. "Dr. Glass perhaps..."

Sherlock reached over and disconnected her. She looked at him with confusion.

"He is part of the case, is there someone else? And please don't mention to him that we were here or you'll be subject to charges of hindering an investigation." He threatened, stone faced.

The girl's puffy cheeks paled and she nodded in understanding and Sherlock released the latch. She dialed again. "Dr. Monroe then."

Minutes later a regal woman met them in the foyer. She brought out her hand with a smile.

"Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson! I am an avid follower of your blog."

Sherlock nodded dismissively but took her hand briefly.

"So I understand you just need to question the chemist? Anything else? We are just commencing breakfast so Mr. Cook would be in the dining hall." She informed.

"Unnecessary to bother Mr. Cook again. Just the chemist."

She shrugged and nodded. "I'm sorry that I can only take you to the pharmacy. We are understaffed today. Do you think you can find your way out?"

Sherlock and John both nodded together. Perhaps luck _would_ be on their side today.

Monroe left them by the chemist door and went back down the hall. Sherlock stopped John before approaching the door. "He's seen me before as an employee. Just follow my lead and keep him distracted."

John nodded but he was beginning to feel the pressure of being a decoy again. They walked up to the window and the little old man practically fell off of his stool when he saw Sherlock. Waving pleasantly, Sherlock called to him. "Good morning! You do remember me?"

The man nodded with dread. Sherlock kept on, not wanting to waste time. "I'm just getting off my shift but I have a friend here who's a Doctor and he had a pharmaceutical inquiry and I told him you were the man to ask!" Leaning closer to the man he added. "We all know chemists are the clever ones don't we?"

Watson frowned.

Cautiously the chemist edged towards the door.

"Doctor?" He asked, his eyes darting from Sherlock to John.

Sherlock nudged John when his friend hesitated.

"Yes. Right. Here, you can see my credentials." John pulled out his wallet and handed the man a card.

The old man squinted at it.

"Why don't you come over here where the light is better." Sherlock motioned to a window a few feet down the hall.

The chemist hesitated then came out through the half-door.

"The lights in this place are rubbish." He murmured.

Sherlock prompted John with a raised eyebrow and John began to ask.

"Well I need to write a script for a uh, depression medication and I wanted to be advised from a pharmaceutical standpoint..." He floundered.

Sherlock waited until they were engaged then he slipped into the room lined floor to ceiling with bottles of every shape. He moved over to the shelf marked '#545509-2 Roswell, H' holding only the single bottle of 'vitamins' and he quickly snatched it down. Opening it he dumped the remainder of the tablets into his pocket and then replaced them with identical ones from the bottle he had brought. Multi vitamins.

Quickly he put it back on the shelf and slipped back out into the hall and closed the door noiselessly. With a look of relief, John nodded to the chemist and thanked him with a smile. The little old man was still talking as Sherlock came over and began to usher him back to his pharmacy.

"Thank you so much for your counsel." John said, Sherlock already moving away.

The old man abandoned his sentence and watched them walk out of sight. Sherlock said nothing and swiftened his pace, forcing John to almost jog to keep up.

"Where to next?" John asked.

Sherlock kept his eyes ahead.

"You're going to go wait outside." He said.

John didn't know if he was deflated or revealed.

"Why?" he asked.

Sherlock stopped short and John had to back step for walking past him.

"Glass knows you and he's here today. I am going to his office and then to find Honor. I shan't be long and will meet you out front." Holmes ended and and turned to a door behind him marked 'Authorized personnel only'. Pulling a key from his pocket he opened it and was gone.

John stood only for a second then turned and left.

Sherlock strode down the hallway. It was painted a light blue rather than the white and mint the main halls were. He watched the names on the doors until he came to the one with 'Gareth Glass'. and he looked around to make sure no one was in sight. Then he pressed his ear to the door. Hearing nothing he took the chance and pulled out another key, inserted it and wiggled it. Stubbornly it caught then finally turned and the door eased in.

The office was surprisingly large and well furnished compared to the rest of the drab hospital. Sherlock took everything in, certificates on the wall, the books on the shelf, the position of the desk and chair and the still steaming cup of tea resting on the table by the wall.

Frowning Sherlock moved over to it. He had limited time.

It looked like some sort of compounding had taken place on the table's surface from the powdery residue and ample supplies in the cabinet underneath. Sherlock tasted it and his face soured. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and took a sample of the powder.

He turned and went to a column filing cabinet. He glanced through the patient names alphabetically and did not find Honor's file in the R or H section. He grunted in frustration and thought for a moment.

Another idea came over him, and he opened the top drawer scanning the files. One near the back was more handled than the others and Sherlock pulled it out. No name labeled on the outside, but when he opened it he was greeted with a younger, smiling photo of Honor. It had also been handled excessively with worn creases and bent corners. Sherlock flipped through the thick stack of papers, stopping at a collection of drawings and pictures of the designs he had seen on the windows. Finally he felt a twinge of satisfaction and pulled his phone out, snapping pictures as fast as he could.

Raised voices alerted him and he quickly rearranged the file and slid it back into it's space. There was some sort of argument stalling what his ears identified as Glass and Monroe outside. The doorknob clicked and began to turn. Sherlock launched himself across the room, leaping over a heavy, leather couch angled in the corner and sequestered himself.

A few seconds later the door opened. Sherlock could only see the ankles and feet of those who entered as he put his head near the ground. Expensive, black dress shoes walked into the room, leading feminine bare feet behind them. Stopping in the doorway was Monroe's low heeled, sensible loafers. Her rich Nigerian accent very noticeable now that Sherlock was listening avidly.

"I just don't understand Doctor." She said.

"No need Dr. Monroe. Thank you for your assistance in bringing Ms. Roswell here. Now if you'll excuse me I have more weekly interviews to complete today and I am already behind."

His steps shadowed by Honor's feet, he brought her over to the couch and it shifted as she sat down. The pair of boots plopped down on the floor next to her.

Monroe's voice was worried.

"Well, of course but such sessions should be done in the designated areas..." She was cut off as Glass walked back over to the doorway.

"I haven't had a chance to organize this morning so I am multitasking. Any concerns you have you may put to Superintendent Norris. Now if there's nothing else." Glass' resentful voice clashed with his civil words. Monroe was backed out into the hall.

A retort was interrupted as Glass closed the door. He turned around and Sherlock heard a sigh.

"Something will have to be done about _that_." Gareth murmured. His feet went to the table and then the filing cabinet.

Sherlock kept very still, straining to listen. After an unnerving pause, Glass walked over to the couch and sat, sipping sounds telling Glass was finishing his tea.

Honor had said nothing, but Sherlock noted her feet move away from Glass, her toes curling.

"Well, how are we today?" Gareth asked predictably.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and felt for his phone carefully. He could be stuck here for a while he realized. He made and sent a text while Glass continued a one sided conversation.

"You were very busy last night, I can see you are just exhausted. I promise we are almost done with your evaluations and you can rest."

A creak in the couch signaled Glass most likely leaning closer to Honor. Her feet pulled up onto the couch out of sight.

"Yes. I'm tired." Honor's voice was almost inaudible.

"I will get you something very special for all your hard work. I promise." Came his reply.

A hand placed the cup and saucer on the floor next to Gareth's feet.

Creaking noises from the couch, staggered breathing and apparent kissing sounds followed. Sherlock could tell more than an 'interview' was happening.

Suddenly a mobile ring stopped the goings on and Glass stood up and went to his desk.

"Yes." He answered. "I have a moment. What is it?"

Sherlock, relieved of the awkward situation, listened to another one sided conversation with peaked interest.

"Monday? That is so soon." A long pause had him pacing nervously. "I can't just walk out of here with a patient! You can't change things, we had an agreement." He said evenly.

Another pause. "Ok. No. That won't be necessary. Send me the details."

Sherlock heard the phone placed back down and Glass began pacing again until the office phone sounded.

Gareth cursed and activated the speakerphone. "What!" he snapped.

"Dr. Glass?" It was the receptionist.

"Yes well?!" he growled.

"I'm sorry to bother you but we have a report that a car that fits your car's description has it's lights on in the lot." Her voice was cowed.

Glass pressed the button again, cold anger released in a sigh.

"I will be right back."

He went to the door and almost slammed it behind him.

Letting out a long, quiet breath Sherlock relaxed. The couch shifted and a curtain hair lowered on the other side where her feet had disappeared from, followed by a set of deep brown eyes. Sherlock met her stare under the low belly of the couch. He then stood up, Honor straightening back up as well, turning to watch him with a tranquilized continence.

As smoothly as he could he climbed back over the couch, adjusting his coat.

"Gandalf?" She asked with sincere eyes.

Looking down his nose at her he said, "Hardly."

Confusion was then washed away from her face and she tried again, "The ice man?"

It was actually very close to some of the names he had been called before referencing to his apparent cold impertinence.

"Close enough." He responded.

Urgently he dug in his pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper and stuffed it in one of her boots particularly so that her foot could still fit. She made no move to intervene but remained seated and observant.

He started for the door and paused. He turned and crossed back to her. Kneeling down he looked straight at her eyes as if searching for something familiar.

Then he said lowly, "Take your medicine." And he left.

Once outside again, he found John shifting nervously foot to foot looking down the lane to the road. Sherlock walked out to him, keeping his coat closed by holding his hands forward in his pockets. John saw him and waited expectantly for Sherlock to speak but he walked by him a few feet then stopped, looking placid.

Blinking, John looked back at the hospital.

"So, how did it go?" He fished.

Sherlock glanced at him over his shoulder then back at the hospital.

"Oh fine. Brilliant." Sherlock nodded concisely.

Completely confused now John asked, "Well what happened?"

"Well, I inspected the office alright and got a hold of the drawings as luck would have it. Then Glass came in with Roswell so I hid behind a couch while he had his morning grope."

Put off, John considered it. "Grope? That sounds unprofessional."

"Agreed." Sherlock said as he spotted the taxi coming down the lane and raised a hand. "Also, the good doctor got an interesting phone call. Sounds questionable, and promising." Sherlock finished with a glint in his eye.

The cab pulled up and Sherlock began to get in when John decided to just ask outright.

"So we are not actually 'breaking' her out?" He felt relieved.

Sherlock looked at him with confusion. "Yes we are."

"Well where is she then?" John sighed, sometimes it was like pulling teeth to get a straight answer out of his friend.

"I see what you mean." Said Sherlock "Indirectly we are breaking her out. But she will do the actual breaking out. I left her a key to her door and the exterior door. If she is as clever as I think she is that should be the ticket. We will know in a couple of days. Give or take. It's hard to pinpoint exactly when her tranquilizers will wear off. Cat metabolisms are so unreliable."

And he lowered himself into the car soon followed by John.


	7. Chapter 7

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

Dr. Monroe watched as Gareth Glass led Honor Roswell down the front steps and to the waiting facility van. The girl was dressed in an official green jumpsuit and white trainers. She was restrained as required by policy and was helped into the van by Glass who followed her.

Monroe folded her arms and frowned. In all her experience at such institutions she had never known such a situation as this. Little was known of Roswell's case by the staff at Westerham and no one was to ask. Official government issued orders accompanied the girl's unorthodox arrival to the hospital and an official looking man would come every other month to speak with Glass behind closed doors.

Dr. Glass oversaw everything to do with Honor. Hardly anything was done with her without his close and personal supervision. Monroe had never actually seen anything inappropriate with her own eyes but somehow she knew Dr. Glass' affiliation with Ms. Roswell was improper. He had bent and completely ignored rules but she had no authority to protest it. Now she got the feeling he knew she was suspicious.

Lately he had allotted Monroe so much responsibility she never stopped during her duty hours. A possible attempt to keep her out of his affairs she suspected.

She worried. Worried about Honor. The girl seemed sweet and harmless. It was hard to believe she was guilty of murder. That was one of the only details given to the higher staff. Once or twice the girl had been violent and attacked a staffer out of the blue. Glass had used this as more evidence that he needed to seclude her, putting her in the wing that was being remodeled.

Today was the strangest of all. Dr. Glass was taking the girl into town to have some tests run at Bartholomew's hospital and had produced the required paperwork but refused to expand upon it. Seeing as he was the girl's sole mental health adviser and because she was not a court referral of their system there was nothing to be done about it.

The van pulled away down the lane and Monroe watched it until it was gone.

* * *

Gareth watched out the floor to ceiling windows that made up the exterior walls of the penthouse. The sun had set with a lemon glow fading on the horizon and the lights of London were already vivid in the encompassing shadows.

He took another deep sip of the strong scotch he clutched in his right hand, the ice clinking against the glass. He hated to feel compelled or hurried to do anything. And he hated it when plans were changed. He could see the steel glare of his reflection in front of him. Dressed in the most expensive suit he had, he had yet to fix his dangling tie or button his vest.

Soft footsteps came up behind him and another man's reflection winged his. They were about the same height, Glass being taller by an inch or two. The other man's thin features framed by a mildly receding hairline. Very ordinary at first glance, but his eyes were darkly cunning. His smile morbid and malicious.

"Been spending too much time in the bin cousin?" The man watched Gareth in the reflection as he spoke.

Glass felt a flash of irritation at this man who intimidated him so.

"Probably Jim." He took another drink, turned and walked into the tastefully decorated room, unsettled just by the man's presence.

"This a new place isn't it?" Gareth tried to sound casual.

Jim followed him in, a small carton of choc-ice in his hand.

"Probably Sean." He said playfully, making Gareth shudder.

Glass didn't dare to confront him for this. For anything. Sean Moriarty was a name he rarely used but correcting James Moriarty was something that just wasn't done. Gareth had silently diagnosed him before as a complete sociopath with major anger management issues and a superiority complex that would fit most of the most violent criminals of history. But he was family. Their fathers were brothers. Jim was also a genius.

Gareth was not even close to a model citizen and had a collection of skeletons in his closet that could most likely get him a room in his own facility. But compared to James, he was a small time crook. They had never been close or even associated until James had contacted him ten years ago at a desperate time in Gareth's life. Since then he would pop up for a 'favor'. You never turned down a 'favor' for Jim Moriarty either.

James took another bite of the choc-ice and then abruptly spun around and hurled it violently at the nearest window.

"What is taking so long?!" His usually soft, high pitched voice transformed into a monstrous roar.

Gareth closed his eyes to quiet his nerves, hoping it was unnoticed. Like a predator, Moriarty could smell weakness and he was not above cannibalizing his colleagues who exposed theirs. Perhaps maybe even literally? That was the thing wasn't it? James had no limits and was not predicable. The worst you could think of was probably not even close to what he had in mind.

The echo of his outburst had not yet died when the shuffling accompanied by clicks was heard from the next room. A pretty pink haired woman almost dragged Honor behind her from the hallway.

The green jumpsuit was gone now. Black, smooth silk hung on her frame, moving with her. The shoulder-less, backless bodice was held in place by a silver box chain that strung around her back and hung about her neck. The skirt rested on her hips and hung to her feet which were still bare. Her eyes were lined in thick, black makeup and her hair pulled back into a long sleek ponytail.

The pink haired girl stared at Moriarty with blatant fear in her face, waiting. No telling expression on Jim's face hindered the tenseness in the air. James just looked for a few seconds then beckoned for the stylist to come to him. She did obediently, her spiked heels clicking the stone floor.

"Get out." He sang oddly as she stopped in front of him. She almost jumped and Moriarty slapped her bum as she scooted by.

When the door had closed, he turned to Gareth.

"Not bad right?" He sounded like a boy in grammar school as he motioned to the docile girl who stood with a slight sway.

Gareth could only nod. Honor looked stunning. It almost overwhelmed him and he felt the wave of possessive desire hot in his veins. Was he inadvertently obsessed with his patient? Yes. It had just happened, starting when he had first seen her months ago. His thoughts had become crowded and only orbited around her. But overriding those emotions now was the dreadful anticipation of what was going through his cousin's head.

Honor just stood there like a statue and James was beginning to walk around her, assessing her.

"I think this will do." He smiled and stopped in front of her.

She did not look up at him or respond at all. She just stared straight through him.

"I think you're onto something here Sean. Like a doll. You can dress her up. Hide her. She won't run or bite with this chemical muzzle you have on her will she?"

Swallowing, Gareth nodded reluctantly. "I gave her a higher dose tonight..."

Moriarty then grabbed her jaw and looked into her mouth. "Nice teeth for a pet."

Roughly he pulled her face to his. His eyes burrowing into her blank stare.

Gareth fought the eruption of jealousy that boiled inside of him, he gripped the glass in his hand tighter and tighter until his muscles ached. Gareth just wanted to take her back to the asylum where it was safe. Where no one else would look at her or touch her.

Moriarty released her and she stumbled back into the wall. When James turned, his eyes were burning.

"You smothered the magnificent fight. The tantalizing resistance. She was like me!" He rambled incoherently.

The air was tense static and Gareth felt a cold sweat cease him. James walked over to where Honor had straightened and hit her with the back of his hand. The strike made her turn into the wall she dropped to the floor against it.

"Pathetic." Moriarty spat and walked away.

Gareth closed his eyes, holding his breath helplessly.

James' steps slowed and his face relaxed. He then sighed and straightened his cuff-links.

"Well, let's go. My date is already there."

And he walked over to the ornate wooden doors, calling the lift.

Dropping his glass on a table, Gareth walked over to Honor as steadily as he could, his frame shaking. Her head was still tilted away from the impact, her cheek reddened and a small cut on her lip was beginning to bleed. Gareth wanted to be furious, he wanted to kill James with his bare hands. But all he felt was powerless fear. He picked her up and carried her over to the elevator where Moriarty was waiting, humming some beautiful melody in a falsetto.

The limo pulled up to the curb of the building cresting the Thames. Valets were standing ready along the roadside as guests were arriving. A large sign stood in the middle of the plaza leading to the entrance. "NeoTech" glowed with a white-blue light as groups of formally dressed people flowed around it.

Moriarty got out and lead them into the building, passing a guest check with some other assumed name but presented the required invitation. Glass recognized many heads of state and powerful industrial business men and women in attendance. He had heard NeoTech to be one of the world's leading chemical and technological companies which recently had absorbed numerous competitors. It's stock was some of the most desired in the industry.

The hosts had spared no expense in food, decoration and instrumental music playing in the background.

Moriarty moved over to a water feature and checked the time on his phone, his frown deepening.

"Looking for me?" Said a woman's voice behind them.

Classically beautiful, her chestnut hair was pulled up in an elegant folding bun like a Greek goddess. She smiled with bright red lips. Her low cut dress also black and tight fitted. A long chain lariat hung from her neck, disappearing into her dress.

Moriarty greeted her. "Irene. Good to see you've retained your head."

"Yes I'm quite fond of it." She said a little flatly.

Her calculating gaze fell over the group. James acquired a glass of champagne that floated by on a server's plater.

"I hope you know how inconvenient this is. I hate to be inconvenienced." He said after he took a swallow. "You know I don't like to be in the pen with all my pigs. That's your job."

Irene's confidence faltered.

"Yes, I know. Our client has been growing anxious. He suspects we are putting him in jeopardy and wanted a demonstration of...the resources before he provided the last installment." Irene spoke, her eyes fixed on Honor who was half hidden behind Glass and then she smiled faintly. "Shall we?"

They followed her around the outskirts of the gathering, slowly and inconspicuously. Then she turned down a darkened hall and her pace picked up. It was almost too dark to make out what lay ahead and Gareth could feel Honor hesitating as he pulled her by her hand. Only the echoes of their footsteps and the swish of the garments sounded.

They approached a light at the end of the hall where a small service lift was located. They all pressed into the cramped space and Irene made the floor selection. No one spoke. Moriarty looked distant and unbothered. Gareth noticed Irene studying Honor with curiosity.

When the door rattled open, Irene stepped out first from the intimate space and started again down a dark hallway until she stopped outside a door and knocked. A moment later the door opened and a tall, suited man with an earpiece opened the door. From behind him a man's voice sounded.

"Come in." Came the strict command.

They all filed in. The room was an impressively equipped laboratory. Everything looked as though it had never been used.

An older man with stone grey eyes and silvering hair sat at a desk, the glow of the computer screen in front of him casting a blue light on his skin.

Another man stood behind him frowning.

Moriarty nodded to Irene who took the cue and stepped forward.

"Archey." She said endearingly, walking over to him with her hands outstretched.

The gentleman's face softened slightly but he didn't reciprocate the advance. Irene let her lips pout.

"So serious darling." She teased then turned back to her group. "Here are the people that have been helping you."

"Mr. Chenney." James nodded casually.

' _Archibald Chenney'_ Gareth thought. One of the most wealthy men in Europe. He owned stock in practically every successful business in the world.

Gareth glanced at Irene who was now standing at Chenney's shoulder, her fingers caressing the fabric of his suit which probably cost as much as $40,000 or more.

Chenney looked skeptical and stood. Gareth caught a glint of a wedding band which explained why Irene Adler had been involved. He had only heard of her from Jim. Just another thread in the web.

"Let's waste no time." Gruffed Chenney. "I want a demonstration of how you have been providing the data that no one else could. And quickly. I have a party to attend."

Moriarty smiled at this and turned to Gareth.

"You're on." He grinned at him.

Gareth just wanted to get it over with. He was worried that he had given Honor too high a dose, maybe she wouldn't be able to perform. What would Chenney say? What would James do? He shuddered to think.

Almost jerking Honor he brought her over to the table.

"Where is it?" Glass asked.

Chenney looked at him narrowly, then at Honor. He began to shake his head but Gareth set his jaw.

"Give us the data and she will take care of it." He said.

After a moment of thought, Chenney took a folded paper from the pocket in his suit jacket and sat it down on the table. A paper tablet and pencil rested next to it.

Then Chenney moved away from the desk and Glass led Honor around and sat her in the chair. With slightly shaky fingers he opened the paper that had the tiniest of writing on it, but it filled up the length of the paper with tables, charts and line upon line of information.

He sighed and leaned into Honor's ear, whispering. "Here you are baby. Keep it simple."

Honor blinked and she slowly turned to look at him. Gareth's heart skipped a beat. Something was not right. Her eyes were so present and comprehensive.

"Well?" Came Chenney's impatient bark from behind him.

Glass almost jumped but he stood up smoothly and waited. Honor sat there, the silence was so loud, Gareth could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He didn't dare to look at Chenney and especially not his cousin. He waited, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. Nothing. Shuffling behind him marked the waning tolerance of the client.

He could feel Moriarty staring at him and Gareth said softly. "Honor?"

She responded nothing, but her slender hand moved to the mechanical pencil and held it delicately. Slowly she leaned over the desk and looked at the creased paper, then pulled the tablet close to her and began to write. The scratching of graphite on paper was mesmerizing. Gareth's shoulders sank as his muscles released their tension.

The time ticked by and paper after paper, Honor kept writing, one continuous line of curving marks and symbols. At times she would pause, and Gareth brought the computer over. With one hand Honor would punch the keys remarkably fast, running simulation programs then lean back over her paper. Gareth almost prayed as he glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by. The pencil must almost be out of lead he would bet.

Moriarty suddenly walked forward and snatched the pencil from Honor's hand, grabbing the multiple sheets of paper piled in front of her. "Look at it. If you are not satisfied, I will consider it time to leave."

Reaching up to take the papers, Chenney looked from Moriarty to Honor who seemed almost frozen, her hand agape and patiently waiting for the pencil again.

"Most, unusual." Chenney murmured. But he handed the papers to the other man who took them, both men squinting at the information Honor had written.

The man at his side nodded to him somewhat shocked.

Chenney's eyes widened slightly, "I see."

Setting the papers back down he took his mobile out and pushed a few keys then started for the door.

"You're compensation has been sent. I want the final product within the next 48 hours."

His company disappeared through the door.

Gareth exhaled, a chill running down his back. James tossed the pencil onto the table and the papers over his shoulder. They fluttered down around him like white birds landing and he laughed. "Have her finish it tonight."

Gareth, who was handing the pencil back to Honor, looked up at James. "Tonight? Who knows how long it would take?"

"Fine?" Moriarty shrugged, daring him to argue further.

Choking down his frustration and defiance, Gareth finally said. "Alright, but I'll need to make a phone call, notify the asylum."

James wasn't paying attention now. He just watched Honor as she mechanically proceeded.

Stressed, Gareth headed for the door, pausing as he searched his jacket for his phone then went out.

After a moment, Irene, who had been suspended, watching the events surrounding her folded her arms boldly and sauntered over to where Moriarty stood.

"Where'd you find him?" She jeered about Glass.

"He's my cousin." Jim informed neutrally.

Irene raised her eyebrows. "Oh. I should have noticed the resemblance."

' _Unstable'_ she added to herself.

Changing her object of attention she moved over to Honor. "She doesn't speak much. Is she family as well?"

James, shook his head. "Just a little portable computer we picked up in the states."

"I see. American." She said, stroking the cool, silky strands of the Honor's ponytail.

Honor paused, blinking.

"Don't distract her. You're touch tends to disrupt things you know." Moriarty said flatly.

Irene took this as a complement.

"Which is why you hire me. Oh she is lovely Jim. Perhaps I can borrow her sometime?" She let her fingers glide from one of Honor's shoulders to the other.

James boredly pulled out his phone. "Sorry, Sean's rather attached. I did miss his birthday so I thought I'd humor him for a time."

"Oh and what do I get for mine?" The brunette posed on the edge of the desk, watching Honor's procession of writing continue.

Flicking his finger over his mobile screen, Jim paused. "I do have a job evolving a certain sleuth."

Irene's ears pricked up which made him smile.

"After this girl is finished with her work, I have to make more, permanent arrangements for her." His tone was foreboding. "Don't mention it to Sean please. He gets too excited."

Irene took his point and looked down at Honor. "Pity. She'd be a stunning pet. Flawless."

"One that will have to be put down more than likely." Now James walked over to Irene, "I'll send you instructions to for the job expectations."

He also glanced at Honor. "Nothing is flawless."

He reached into his jacket and brought out a lighter and then wiggled off a thick ring with a seal from his pinky finger. Irene could barely make out some kind of bird with a something in it's beak. Moriarty held the lighter up to the ring. The flame dancing over the brassy surface. Irene's face tightened.

After a few seconds James looked at the ring. "Anything that we come across in this life that seems perfect is quickly defiled. As if we can't accept perfection even though we all strive for it. Hence we must destroy it. The true angels always fall."

He lowered it and pressed it into the back of Honor's bare shoulder. Sharply she jerked away, yelping. Irene swallowed but said nothing.

A red circle inflamed the skin on Honor's back. The door opened and Gareth walked in swiftly, "What happened?" He demanded.

Irene shook her head at him in warning.

Waving his ring to cool it off, James just smiled. "On my way out. Sean. Call me when everything is finished." He clapped a hand on his cousin's shoulder then went through the door. Irene was right behind him and gave Gareth a sympathetic look. A few words passed between them as then exited. A name, but Gareth was hardly listening.

* * *

She could see the surface, a shimmer of light just above her. Heaviness pulled back on her but she could feel herself still rising.

And then she was aware, fully aware.

It had seemed like a dream from which she was now awake from for the first time in months.

Opening her eyes, Honor let them focus. A small, hospital room? She was tired, so tired.

She lay on a small bed without blanket or pillow. Currents of dull pain throbbed in her head, arm and shoulder blade. She suddenly felt the chill of the cold air from the window pouring down onto her.

A man stood by a table just a few feet from her. He was dressed as if he was going, no, had just come from an upper-class event. His shoes were scuffed, sleeves rolled back, jacket lay by her feet carelessly as people do when they were on the down side of an affair. Yes, he was drunk, not just in his mannerisms, but she could smell it.

How long had it been since she could remember smelling something? It was almost euphoric. It was as if all her senses were reviving from a deep hibernation.

She moved her hand, feeling the friction of the sheet against her skin making it tingle.

"So glad that's over. Aren't you?" Came the slurred question from the man pouring another drink.

Honor waited, she looked back at him. He could be ten years older than she, boyishly handsome and familiar. Who was he? She should know, she knew she should know.

He turned around and came over to the bed and sat down putting on hand on her knee.

"I promise that will never happen again Honor." He vowed with a strikingly serious face.

What? What had happened? She felt like she had been in that bed for ages. No, she had been somewhere. Flashes of muddled memories began to leak like a broken faucet. A faucet she had worked so hard to control.

She was about to speak but then a wave of nausea made her just moan and put her face into the mattress. The man started to rub the calf of her leg tenderly.

"You've done what he's asked. They'll leave us alone now." He sounded like he was trying to assure himself. Then he stood up.

"4:30am, I'm going to go get a little sleep. I'll be back to get you ready for the day. Good night." He leaned over to stroke her cheek then went to the door, pausing to look back at her before he left.

What did I do? The churning in her stomach tightened and she barely pulled herself to the edge of the bed in time to be sick. Instantly she felt better and she struggled to sit up and look around. No, not a hospital, it was more like a prison cell. No phone, medical equipment, sink or bathroom.

Shivering, Honor tried to think. She had been here a long time it seemed. She needed to talk to someone. The man? Remembering his affectionate touch she decided against it. Sean. His name was Sean.

Her eyes fell on a marker on the table. Memories of numbers, letters, symbols erupted.

Her hand slowly came up to her cheek then down to her lip and they replied with soreness. She pushed herself up from the bed, her legs felt numb but she forced them to move. Slowly she walked to the door and tried the knob. Locked, there was no window in the door to see what was on the other side. Honor turned around and rested against the metal door's cool surface glancing to the single window.

It was all dark and cloudy outside as well as in her head. The thoughts crowded in like thunderheads, crashing together and covering each other up.

Time she couldn't account for, but she remembered one thing in particular. Another man's face. Tall with dark curly hair. Her eyes rolled over to the boots. She hurried over to them, falling on her knees on the hard tile floor and put her hand inside. She felt the paper in the toe and pulled it out. Two keys fell out, ringing as the bounced on the floor. Unfolding the paper there was a man's writing scribbled inside.

A gunshot went off in her head. She couldn't scream. An explosion. Memories of danger. She was in danger. "She'll have to be put down." Said the disturbing man's voice.

Couldn't she just find someone else and tell them? No, she was insane apparently. Grabbing the keys and note, she went over to the robe that was draped on the back of the chair and put the items in the pocket. Pulling it on slowly she looked around the room, ambitiously this time.


	8. Chapter 8

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Working on my dialog punctuation but failing miserably!**

* * *

Morning had come early for John on Tuesday. At 7:30 he was up, showered and dressed for the first day shift.

Entering the kitchen he almost gasped. On the dining table was a dissected duodenum being eaten on by a cat. When the cat saw him it growled and hissed at him then scampered off the table frantically.

"Well, I guess breakfast is off." He said to himself, feeling ill.

Turning he looked into the living room where Sherlock still sat where John had left him the night before.

"You didn't go to bed last night?"

"Don't ask the obvious." Sherlock snipped, typing on the computer.

Seeing the disgusting scene in the kitchen, the unwarranted foul mood of his flat mate and the fact that the wild cats still had their run of the flat for which he paid half rent, John was feeling justified in the 'telling-off' he wanted to give Sherlock. The only reason he was not expressing his enmity in full force was the large doses of antihistamine he had been taking regularly. The side effect of drowsiness however was making him feel passive, just another bullet Sherlock would dodge with his infuriating luck. Still a mild but polite tongue lashing was still in order, later.

With a 'Woo hoo', Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs with her usual cheerful morning temper.

"Good morning boys!" She chimed and, taking the state of the living room, tisked.

"Sherlock, did you lodge that cleaver in the wall?!"

"On the third try." Sherlock mumbled, totally unaware that he was being scolded.

She turned to John flustered. "It's going to take a fortune to mend that wall!"

John just nodded and tried to steer her back out of the flat but she brightened and moved for the kitchen.

"You're leaving early today Dr. Watson! I'll just make a little fry-up for you."

John thought of the kitchen and immediately intervened, taking her shoulders and redirecting her before she could enter.

"No no Mrs. Hudson, I have to get going anyway and after all you're our landlady, not our housekeeper! I'll just pick up something on the way in!" He led her protesting to the stairs.

"It's been snowing again outside. Make sure you take your coat and hat!" She fussed as she shuffled down the steps.

He went back into the living room and began to get ready to leave, deciding to deal with the situation after he'd had a relaxing day at work.

"The cats will be gone when you get back." Sherlock said flatly, he had his head down on the table.

This could almost be taken like a peace offering and John gladly accepted.

"I would appreciate that. Do you need me me to pick up anything?" He offered, thinking better of it after the fact. Darn his infernal good nature.

Sherlock grumbled a decline to John's relief.

A shout from Mrs. Hudson downstairs brought them both down to the foyer. The front door was wide open and Mrs. Hudson was supporting someone slumped against her as best she could.

John stopped at the foot of the stairs when he recognized who it was. The american girl, still in her bathrobe, bare legs disappearing into the old army boots that were caked in mud and snow.

Sherlock hurdled the railing, bypassing John and went to assist.

"She was just standing there looking like she'd been out all night! She said something about the 'iceman'." Mrs. Hudson was babbling.

Sherlock lifted Honor up and headed back to their flat. "Never mind Mrs. Hudson, she has an appointment."

John had stepped aside to allow him by and thought he saw a low smile on his friend's face.

"Come along Doctor," Sherlock said over his shoulder. "Give her a once over would you?"

John looked to Mrs. Hudson who shrugged. "I'll bring some blankets and a hot something. She was clutching this in her hand." Mrs. Hudson gave him a folded paper which he took and, as he turned and moved upstairs, opened it to see Sherlock's writing: 221b Baker St.

Sherlock laid the girl on the couch.

He knew it. It was a petty trial but the results had been what he had hoped for. The girl had easily left the institution and made it there in less than 3 hours judging from the state of her shoes and dampness of her robe. Considering the fact that she probably was yet to be entirely detoxified from her psychiatric medications and still made it, the experiment could be looked on as a success.

He pulled her dripping boots off as John appeared and crossed to them.

She seemed lethargic now, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and her eyes rimmed with smudged grey makeup. John opened her lids to look at her pupils and took her vitals.

Sherlock stood back for a moment in thought until John stood up.

"Well, I don't think she'll lose any toes or anything." He chuffed facetiously , yet almost accusingly. "You'll need to keep her warm and let her rest.

She's a little malnourished, but I think Mrs. Hudson will remedy that."

Sherlock barely heard him, he had already deduced her condition and was a million miles away.

"Sherlock, you can't just walk out of a mental institution. They are going to come looking for her." John said warningly.

"Someone will." Sherlock admitted as Mrs. Hudson came up with a quilt under her arm and a steaming tea cup in her other hand. She came over and helped John remove the girl's wet robe and covered her with the blanket.

"Out in this weather in her knickers?! The very idea. She'll catch her death! Is she a client Sherlock?" The motherly woman rambled.

Sherlock just stood and stared beyond them. "Perhaps."

The clamor and voices around him began to fade to background then silence. His eyes still open, he saw nothing of the room or the people in it anymore. He had to think.

When Sherlock returned from his 'mind palace', everyone had gone leaving him in the late morning light pouring through the two large windows. He was sitting in his chair now and looked at the clock, noting it to be 10:48am.

Honor still slept, curled up on the couch. She had shifted, turned to the wall now and the blanket tugged around so that her back was exposed.

Had she been missed yet? Surely the hospital was investigating now. Unless his suspicions were correct.

He went to turn on the television to see if any news report regarding it aired but he doubted it. As he stepped over to the set, he looked again at the girl's form on the couch. Something caught his eye. A small arc of red peeked out of the wide collar of her tshirt, Sherlock walked back over to her to examine it closely, squatting down. On the top of her shoulder blade, it did not seem to be a birthmark as he had initially thought. It almost looked as though something had been freshly burned into the skin but the shirt covered up the majority.

Pulling out his pocket magnifying glass, he reached up and caught the edge of the material to expose the concealed brand. A blinding crack of pain caught his nose and he fell backward. He was stunned only a second and looked up.

The girl lay twisted around, facing him now. Her blackened eyes wide with fright and her left hand still fisted, shaking with adrenaline.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Hudson gasped from the doorway, holding a tray with a tea pot and serving ware. The laundered robe slung over her arm.

"Are you alright?" She scuddled in, setting down her load and hurrying over to Sherlock.

He wiped at his nose, a warm trickle beginning to drip from it.

"Yes of course." He waved to his landlady dismissively and got back to his feet.

Honor had almost sat up, looking just as startled as Mrs. Hudson.

"What were you doing?" Said Mrs. Hudson to Sherlock as she took careful steps closer to the disheveled girl.

"It's alright lovey. We aren't going to hurt you." She said calmingly.

Only looking to Mrs. Hudson for a moment, Honor returned her wary eyes back to Sherlock.

"Please Mrs. Hudson. I should expect nothing less. Snap reflexes. Perfect placement and execution. Quite effective actually." He blinked a bit dazed.

"Oh, look at the state of your shirt!" Mrs. Hudson persisted but he fended her off with John's flatcap which he snatched from the table.

"Was there anything else Mrs. Hudson? If not I have some business to discuss with the lady." He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the door.

The elderly woman looked back with worry lining her face but she stepped out of the flat.

Shaking his head, Sherlock walked back inside, subconsciously wiping at the blood on his white button up shirt with the cap.

Honor was halfway standing and sank back down when she saw him return.

"I-I'm sorry for..." She left off.

"Think nothing of it." Sherlock insisted tossing the hat back in the general area of where he had found it. "It seems you've been on the receiving end of something similar recently." He referred to her scabbed lip.

She reached up and touched it as if it had been forgotten.

In the meantime he poured himself a cup of tea. The break in conversation stretched out over the seconds, both parties content to reside in the silence.

Finally, Honor looked away from him and pulled the blanket further over her legs. "It was you that helped me get out of that place?"

"Obviously." Came the quick reply over the cup.

"Thank you. I am a little, foggy on everything. I don't know how I know you or why you helped me." She admitted.

Wrinkling his forehead Sherlock mumbled. "Memory lapse. Disappointing. I was anticipating a quicker recovery." It was more to himself. Like a scientist noting the results displayed by a lab rat.

Honor seemed surprised at his comment. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. You haven't even told me who you are."

Sitting the cup down on the table, Sherlock seemed annoyed. "Of course you do and I think you're being a bit withholding by the way. Twenty seconds around the room."

Honor's wide, innocent eyes became guarded and sharp. Resistance set her shoulders back proudly. "I've just about had it with people telling me what to do. You can play your games by yourself Mr. Holmes..."

"Weak but better." Sherlock encouraged. "Much better. Now we're getting somewhere. Twenty seconds around the room. I'm giving you 4 more than I should but seeing as you are under the influence still, sleep deprived, not to mention american..."

He turned to occupy himself with his phone.

Honor sat there for a moment then stood up, glaring at him. But she walked passed him looking about then returned to the couch in less than 10 seconds. A small smile pushed at his mouth but he cleared his throat and considered her with serious eyes.

"Well?" He waited.

"Why?"

"Because you can. This is the only reason I've spent precious time aiding and abetting you. Bringing who knows what upon myself. I think you have an exceptional mind. One that someone wanted to harness and I want to know why. And out of pure curiosity." he said clearly.

The girl's challenging stare faltered and she leaned back, resting her head and closing her eyes.

"Your name is Sherlock Holmes. The scattered letters about the room note that. You are a criminal investigator of some kind but not for a livelihood. It's an obsession. You not only bring work home but have held on to experiments and old evidences any person with OCD compulsions would do. You are a genius, a master of all trades but absolutely awkward when it comes to 'normal' social interaction. Anyone can see you are successful in the undertakings you have made. But the walls are bare of any pictures of family or friends. You did not offer me a cup of tea as especially British etiquette requires. You have a distasteful superiority complex which you plague even the few friends you do have with. That is clear in how you have issued commands like someone would to a dog."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the boring ramble, "Why should I want to put up pictures?"

She ignored the snide question and continued, "Your room...sorry, flatmate John Watson is a medical doctor. He holds you in the highest regard but you take him for granted and constantly overlook his feelings. His belongings are neat and tidy but you still sat your dripping cup down on his stack of letters, not to mention wiping your shirt with his hat. Ironically, he has sewed a tear closed in the cuff of it for you."

Sherlock interrupted. "It could be my hat and how do you know Mrs. Hudson didn't mend the shirt?"

She shook her head doubtfully. "No...they are the precise, functional stitches of a surgeon. And I see you more in the deerstalker on the floor there. Am I done?"

Sherlock almost snorted but swallowed it. Composed once more, he shrugged. "I don't know. Are you?"

"Yes I think I am. I hate this." She put her hands to her face like a defensive fighter.

"Brilliant. It's a start. Now, you, are a bit harder to read, seeing as you are in foreign surroundings, haven't groomed yourself nor been in your right mind in, I'd say 9 or 10 months?"

"I don't know, I've been drugged. It's January? Yes 9 months." She reasoned but he continued.

"Honor Roswell. Hailing from Idaho USA. Your parents were excessively sentimental with the bizarre names of you and your sister. It probably contributed to the social aloofness you also experienced growing up which is one reason you are not loud or flamboyant. The other reason is that you are a _reluctant_ genius which you have fought to hide and deny even to this day. I can tell by your crude deductions although accurate enough came painfully slow. You didn't look at yourself in the mirror or any other reflective surface as you looked around nor have attempted to assess the appalling state of your hair or face as the average woman would do so you are not wrapped up in that sort of frivolous vanity. Interesting for a young, attractive lady. Your moral compass is very oppressive as you keep fussing over the blanket to cover your legs. So your family may be very religious. An oxymoron for a genius. You've at least been to college if not achieved a degree or two but something has gone horribly wrong which is why you have ended up here. But you know what's very interesting is that there is no scholastic record of you in higher education."

"Most of your assessment is desperate speculation ."

"Am I wrong?" He left himself open.

After a moment she shook her head. "No. Look, I am not a genius. I'm no one and I just want to be left alone."

"Then why did you come here?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.

Honor pulled the blanket closer. "I have no where else to go."

"You can't call mum and dad back on the potato farm to bring you home?"

"Canola. No. Not yet." Sadness rimmed the reply.

"Why not go to the authorities or talk to someone at the asylum? Why did you risk coming here?"

Sherlock was asking rhetorically as far as he was concerned because he was already solid on his theory. However there were some key points missing which he wanted to acquire quickly.

Honor just shook her head. "I can't. Look, please believe me. You don't want to be involved in my problems. Thank you for your help."

She stood up, looking around until she spotted the dried robe that Mrs. Hudson had brought back with the tea.

Hiding his mild disappointment, Sherlock came to stand next to her and poured another cup of tea, offering it to her. "Very well. But before you go let me speculate once more. You are being blackmailed or framed for something. Whatever 'they' want has to do with the code pictures you write. Now that you've been committed, you're testimony wouldn't account for much."

Not taking the tea, she had already slipped on the robe and was tying it around her.

"Great Mr. Holmes. But I can't believe you want to help me out of the goodness of your heart." She said honestly.

He shrugged. "I have my own reasons and charity is definitely not a factor. I am becoming very curious in your abilities and what plot someone is commandeering them for. You see I loath dullness and monotony. Maybe this will end up being a waste of my time but it sparks my interest presently. Am I being straightforward enough with you? Besides, you won't last 10 minutes in Westminster looking like that. They'll send you back to your boyfriend at Westerham instantly."

He must have hit a nerve because her face became stone.

"Don't worry about me." She snapped at him half way to the door.

Sherlock folded his arms.

"I'm not. But don't be hasty. I think you know I am the only one who can and will help you. Don't let foolish pride rob you of your one viable option." He called after her as she went out the door.

He could hear her descend the steps but the front door did not open or close. Smiling he turned his back to the door and picked up a biscuit and took a bite.

Seconds passed, then Honor's brushy voice sounded behind him. "You're kind of a jerk." He heard her say from the doorway.

' _Too easy._ ' He thought.

"Would you have a biscuit?" He asked politely as he could, not facing her. "If you want something else to eat, there is a kitchen. Please read the labels. You are also welcome to a shower."

He glanced over his shoulder at her with a frown. "In fact I would highly encourage it."

Honor decided on food first. It was no surprise to her that she couldn't remember what or when she had eaten last but her stomach was beginning to burble. Besides that, she had an underlying desire to irk her host who had all but said she stunk. He was now busy stalking around the flat, apparently trying to apprehend elusive cats.

There was absolutely nothing she would expect to be in a kitchen. Not even a cup of noodles. A few potato chip bags, salt/pepper/sugar packets from restaurants, and spoiled takeouts in the fridge. The strange plastic bags of, what she could figure, human remains or worse she tried to overlook.

Finally she found a couple of potatoes and baked them in the microwave then peeled and ate them. Savoring the bland taste with a bit of salt she added from one of the packets, she realized she hadn't really tasted anything for sometime.

For Sherlock, it was like she wasn't even there. He went about his strange behaviors as if he were alone in the apartment. She was perfectly fine with the lack of conversation. Their interchange from that morning could have lasted her a lifetime. Still, as much as she hated to admit it, she felt better. Not quite to the point of comfort or even relief, but even as she watched him crawl past the doorway after one of the cats, she felt a bit of hope.


	9. Chapter 9

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Thanks again for reading and reviews are really helpful to me. I'm still figuring out how to use FF site. I think I erased a couple of comments accidentally so I'm sorry!**

* * *

A cold sweat had dampened Gareth's collar. He sat on the empty bed, hunched forward with his fingers locked into his hair, seized with shock. The tray of fruit, beans and a couple slices of buttered bread lay scattered on the floor where he had dropped it upon entering the deserted room.

She was gone, just gone. It was noon when he had finally made it back to the asylum. He had drunk way too much and it had taken him all morning to sleep it off. Now the pounding in his head was back with a vengeance.

After searching the facility frantically, he now had returned to the room overwhelmed in panic. The window was intact, no signs of forced exit at the door, everything normal but her absence.

His mind jumped to Monroe. She had been meddling and snooping around since she'd started here. She must have done something with Honor. The influx of anger catalyzed the panic and he began to shake.

Questions. People would ask questions. Easy enough, he had left her at Bart's for more testing. The two guards that had seen them return last night could easily be taken care of. No, she couldn't have just evaporated, the surveillance videos would hold the answer.

Honor's medication was overdue, he had to locate her quickly.

* * *

Holmes had been right. The shower had been much needed. She now pulled her t-shirt and shorts back on, the chill of the tile floor making her shiver after so long in the hot water.

Wiping the mirror she confronted a raccoon-like face staring back at her, framed by the brown towel she was twisting up on her head.

What had happened last night? Blurred memories were like a puzzle that was obviously missing pieces. Some visual and auditory, one face shifting another. She reached back over her shoulder, her fingers lightly touching the tender, blistered skin.

' _All angels fall.'_ The voice echoed in her mind.

After a bit of work she finally removed the last of the residual makeup and smiled at the familiar reflection. Giving her hair a final pat with the towel she wound it up into a bun and opened the door.

Dr. Watson almost fell into the room when his hand didn't find the doorknob. Catching himself he blinked at her. "So sorry I didn't know anyone was in here." He apologized quickly.

Honor shook her head.

"Oh don't worry please, thank you, for...I'll just get out of your way." She slipped out.

Surprise tensed John's brow as he watched her go.

Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen, leaning over the sink when Honor ventured into the open front room.

"Afternoon!" She greeted Honor who almost jumped. "Oh sorry! You look much better lovey. Before it was like death warmed up."

Letting a near grin lift her cheeks Honor replied. "No problem. You're Mrs. Hudson?"

The sweet elderly woman nodded. She was wearing rubber kitchen gloves and awkwardly trying to dial something on her phone.

"Pardon me, I'm just phoning the workmen. This sink seems to get stopped up at least twice a week I think! Strange there's never any cooking going on but you know, with someone like Mr. Holmes the less you ask the better." Mrs. Hudson finished, practically running out of breath.

Honor moved curiously over to the sink.

"Do you mind?" She asked.

Shrugging Ms. Hudson nodded. "Oh, if you like."

Leaning closely, Honor squinted into the depths of the drain. She gagged from the smell that greeted her and stood back up.

"Wow, that's...yeah you have a little clog but it should be easy to fix. Would you like me to...?"

Blinking in surprise, Mrs. Hudson hesitantly replied. "Oh no dear. Don't worry about it."

"It should be very simple and wouldn't take but 10 minutes at the most." Honor insisted.

Mrs. Hudson scratched the back of her head, considering it then shrugged with a smile. "Alright then! Do you need anything?"

Honor was already crouched and opening the cabinets under the sink. "A bowl, a wire clothes hanger and a rag should do. Oh, a flashlight?" The ending was muffled as her top half disappeared into the cavity there.

Minutes later John came out, pulling on a wool sweater, he was met by Sherlock who just stepped in from the front door looking at some serious scratches on his hands. Sherlock, glancing up at John as he passed, looked disappointed.

"Oh, you're going out on a date tonight? Didn't she just break up with you last week? Hmm, no same sweater so it must be someone new."

John rolled his eyes and ignored the deduction.

"Cats are gone I take it? You should put something on those scratches." John jumped the subject but Sherlock was already down the hall, headed to his room.

John was getting used to this sort of abandonment in their exchanges and moved into the kitchen scouting for a snack, carefully avoiding the refrigerator. He nodded at Mrs. Hudson who's head popped up on the other side of the table by the sink.

"Good afternoon Dr. Watson" She waved and sank back out of sight.

With a bag of crisps he had retrieved from a hiding spot in his hand, he edged around to see Mrs. Hudson sitting on the ground and the lower half of who he was sure was Ms. Roswell, head and shoulders under the sink area.

Popping a crisp in his mouth he ventured. "She at that clog?"

"You know those handymen always up the fee when they recognize our address Doctor! The girl's doing fantastic."

There was a sloshing sound and a groan and Honor backed out quickly.

"Ugh, I think that's it." She said, kneeling up.

"What was it dear?" Asked Mrs. Hudson.

"It's best not to speculate I think. I'll just put it back together, turn the water on and we'll try it out."

Mrs. Hudson handed her a towel. "You've got it all over your shirt! Oh, no change of clothes! Well we can't have you walking around in that bathrobe! I think I have something that would suit you."

Honor began to protest then, examining her own shirt, compiled with a nod instead. Soon they were all crowded around the sink, watching the water drain smoothly. Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands joyfully. "Well done! You'd think with two men in the house, especially as clever as this lot, they would fix a sink! But they're always too busy, running off on a case and what not."

"I could never lower myself to the dreadful domesticity of household repair." Came Sherlock's snooty injection from the living room.

The women looked back at him but John just raised his hand, signalling it best to just leave it.

"As long as the cats are gone." He cast over his shoulder as he went back out into the hall and up the stairs to his room.

Honor began to wash her hands. She found such tasks enjoyable especially if she had never tried it before. Her father had told her she had a 'knack for how things worked' which was usually his way of asking her to fix the clutch again on the truck.

"Come along and we'll find something for you downstairs." Mrs. Hudson interrupted her thoughts, adding in Sherlock's direction. "Do you mind Sherlock?"

Slouching in his armchair, legs straight and head in one hand he waved in annoyance.

As the ladies turned to go out a knock sounded and Mrs. Hudson opened the door immediately.

Molly Hooper turned around as if she wasn't expecting anyone to answer so quickly and her smile flinched slightly as she looked from Mrs. Hudson to Honor.

"Molly dear! Go right on in! Sherlock's just inside. A bit on the grumpy side." The landlady chirped then lowered her voice for the last part. She slid Honor and herself past the stunned girl. Molly's feet automatically began to enter the flat but her head continued to watch the pair round the corner at the landing of the stairs, going out of sight.

Finally she pulled her attention into the living room and focused on Sherlock who was rubbing his forehead fervently.

"Who was that?" Molly asked sheepishly.

"Mrs. Hudson our landlady." Sherlock mumbled.

"No, I know Mrs. Hudson. I've met her, so many times Sherlock. I mean the other...one?" Molly clarified.

"Oh, the plumber." The sarcasm in his voice was muted and so only served to make her all the more confused.

John had just entered the room, caught the end of the conversation and graciously interjected.

"A new client." He said to Molly.

"Or possibly a new mistake?" Sherlock tagged on painfully to no one in particular then looked to Molly as if she'd just arrived. "Molly what is it now? Couldn't you have texted? I'm terribly busy at the moment." He lectured before he assessed her.

She was still in her long, padded coat. Her natural, reddish brown hair braided loosely and held in place with barrettes on the sides. A very modest attempt at applying makeup had been made and she wore her favorite cream slacks. Before Sherlock could speak further, John saw the self conscious shift in her shoulders.

"Um Sherlock, she's actually just here to pick me up."

A very rare look of incomprehension shrouded the detective's long face. "For what?" He finally managed.

John was zipping his coat up. "Well we found that we both have a guilty pleasure for bingo and haven't been for ages."

Molly couldn't help but let a stray smile slip out.

"Bingo!?" Sherlock exclaimed in unbelief then his phone alerted him to a text which completely redirected his attention.

John took this opportunity to motion to the doorway with his head and he and Molly began to leave. Sherlock jumped out of the chair and followed after them.

"Wait. John, I just got a message from Lestrade. There's been another murder that he says could be connected to the other sniper ones..."

John kept walking, herding Molly in front of him. "Not today alright? You could do this one on your own Sherlock."

They all sandwiched down the stairs.

"Molly you could come too. Get a preview of what you're going to see at work tomorrow anyway." Sherlock hopefully offered.

She shrugged and kept walking, "I'll see you tomorrow at Bart's Sherlock?" She said as a mother would to a child who was upset she was going out.

The door closed almost in his face and his shoulders dropped. The tenseness in his lips poised with disappointment and irritation. Go without Jon? He had overplayed his enthusiasm for the case and probably would have ended up having Jon go for him anyway.

Bingo? Together? Sherlock could feel the current of emotions rushing him away to uncomfortable and illogical places and took a deep breath.

"Anything wrong Sherlock?" Said Mrs. Hudson's voice from behind him.

He had already decided to be pouty and silent for the rest of the day when he turned around and was confronted with another scene he was not prepared for.

Mrs. Hudson was busy pinning the side of an obvious vintage 60's sack dress to Honor's slender frame. The material's pattern was of the persuasion of something he'd seen only on tired drapes or long forgotten wallpaper old in cupboards. The green, blue and white design swirled around on the high neck, long sleeves and knee-length dress like a cannabis inspired dream.

As Mrs. Hudson was arraigning the white hip-belt, she cooed. "I still have the go go boots and leather hat to go with it!"

Instantly recomposed, Sherlock started back up the stairs. "Unnecessary Mrs. Hudson. Just a pair of your sensible, old lady shoes will do. And a long coat to cover that...brain aneurysm."

Both of the women looked at each other, Mrs. Hudson questioningly, Honor apprehensively.

"Where are we going?" Honor asked his back as he walked swiftly up the stairs.

His belated reply was obstructed as he moved about the room upstairs. Somehow this didn't impede Honor's hearing and her face set coldly.

"Oh no. I'm not going. If it has something to do with solving my problem then that's one thing. But I would only get in your way Mr. Holmes." She resisted.

Sherlock reappeared and came down the stairs pulling his coat on and dragging his scarf behind him, "I have no doubt of that. Mrs. Hudson the coat please."

Obediently the lady retreated back into her apartment.

"You really think it's a good idea that I go out? I'm beginning to feel some sort of withdraw I don't know if I can physically manage. Besides," She lowered her voice a little. "I stick out like a sore thumb. What if Glass is looking for me?"

Sherlock was wrapping his scarf around his neck and said. "If someone is looking for you then either they already know where you are or they will shortly. Either way, it is safer for you to be with me. Besides you've got to do something to pay for your room and board you know."

Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a bluish gray overcoat, wiping and picking at specks on it's surface.

"Room and board? I ate two potatoes?! I slept for 3 hours and 8 minutes on your couch while you were poking at my back!"

"Projected room and board."

"What about Mrs. Hudson?" Honor tried.

Glancing at his phone, Sherlock breathed an annoyed sigh then snatched the coat from Mrs. Hudson and began putting it on Honor himself. "Mrs. Hudson will be fine, she's indestructible. Now come along."

Despite Honor's resistance he managed to get one arm in and throw the rest over her shoulder then dragged her out the door.

"The boots!" Called Mrs. Hudson who hurried after them with a pair of brown leather, calf height boots.

The snow had melted and the wet pavement was splotched with run off. Sherlock held Honor's wrist securely with one hand and hailed an approaching taxi with the other.

"Please Mr. Holmes, I think this is a bad idea." Honor pleaded, shivering in her bare feet.

The taxi stopped and Sherlock opened the door. "Then let me do the thinking for now."

He herded her into the back seat sternly and climbed in behind her. Mrs. Hudson in tow managed to insert the boots before the door closed. Then the taxi pulled away leaving a white cloud of exhaust lingering by the curb.

Pulling her seat belt across her and securing it, Honor looked over at Sherlock nervously. His gaze out his window was distant and averse. For as long as she could remember, Honor could look at someone and see things about them that read like captions. She had assumed that most people thought that way until her voiced observations began to make people uncomfortable even as a child.

She remembered it was her first semester as a freshman in high school when she had realized she did not fit in. After she had pointed out some very incriminating similarities between two senior football player's math quizzes, her sister pulled her aside, warning her to be cautious. Not only was she a freshman in a senior level class but her naive lack of inhibition would not be considered cute or just odd as it had in the past. People could be cruel and like any species in nature, if someone was different or stood out from the crowd, they would draw the scrutiny or even the enmity of a pack.

Chastity had graduated early, leaving Honor alone with her accidental enemies and soon she would submit to the harassment. Even some teachers, taking Honor's quiet brilliance as vain superiority or perhaps they were intimidated, also added to the proverbial pecking order. Lurking from classroom to classroom, waiting until the very last calculated second to transition to the next class, Honor floated emotionless from bell to bell until she could go home. College had been better because people had seemed to keep more to themselves and thus lowering the mindless mob mentality. Honor had found a knack for sciences and spent most of her time, if not sleeping, in the lab, any lab. Which was the path that had somehow brought her to this strange situation in which she now found herself.

But what now had her attention, was the familiar look of concentration on this man's face who sat next to her. His mind was working, intricately, irregularly, flying from one ponder point to the next. Multiple directions. Multiple dimensions. She knew it's constant drill. How strenuous and how tiring. How euphoric and how addicting. How very lonely. So many things were the same about them that her heightened intuition had hinted to. She almost felt a piece of comfort, like she felt when she would go back for the holidays after a long year to that little farm house near the mountains. It almost felt like home to know there was someone who was, like her.

She sighed and looked back out the cab window, the rain had begun to fall again in the dwindling afternoon hours. It would snow again soon.

"I'm not like you." She heard her own voice resonate the stillness, completely contradicting her thoughts.

"I know." His matter-of-fact tone was careless.

Passively aggressive, she managed to look at him directly although his eyes were still locked out the window.

"Then why are you testing me? That's all you've done since I've met you."

He didn't answer right away. As if it were no more important than whatever he was meditating on through the glass. Then with a raised eyebrow he confronted her with his faded green glare.

"You could be. You have the actual physical ability to function on a high level, in all aspects of your life but you refuse to for some reason. It is almost tragic." He bit into the words.

"It is my choice." She pushed at the heavy intimidation that he emitted.

"It's the wrong one. Choosing incompetence and mediocrity is horrifyingly worse than natural stupidity. It's a disgusting waste. Willing idleness."

A wave of nausea helped keep her silent after this blatant insult. He was so harsh and seemed to lash out like an injured wild animal. Honor let it go, focusing on repressing the dizzying pull she felt in her body. It must be from the detoxification from whatever Glass had been giving her. It was like a centrifuge spinning inside her. She rested her head against her window and closed her eyes. As soon as she felt better, she would figure things out for herself.


	10. Chapter 10

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

The ride soon ended at what looked like a muddy construction site belted by scattered police cars and officers keeping curious passersby from gathering.

The taxi stopped and let them out. Honor noticed that the posted officers immediately knew Holmes and they either stared at him in fascination or grinned as though it were some joke. Holmes just walked, no, strutted over to the cautionary tape, stepping over it and continuing down an incline towards the obvious centroid of the scene.

A groan was heard from a group of plain clothed personnel who had turned to watch them approach. The woman in the group set her jaw, her dark sharp eyes needling Holmes. Raking at a stray, coiled strand of hair she greeted him sarcastically.

"He's here everyone. We can all go home. The light from on high has descended."

This brought a snicker from the three other men. Sherlock kept moving but in passing he commented lightly. "You'd better get that shirt back to Anderson Donovan before his wife notices it missing."

A look of startled guilt took the woman's face and she looked down at the generic button up visible inside her open jacket. Blushing, Donovan then looked around at her group, realizing she had confirmed Sherlock's accusation.

Honor continued to follow the lanky detective, hearing Donovan's muttered curses and denials behind her. Twenty feet further on, they were met by a young, graying man who's tired eyes transitioned from relief upon seeing Holmes to distrust when he looked to her.

He put up his hand, "Sherlock, who's this? Where's John?"

"A substitute. Where's the body Lestrade." It wasn't a question but a notification that his patience was already critically low.

Lestrade hesitated only a moment then exhaled his yield and motioned ahead of them. Sherlock had only paused and was now pressing on to where the obvious scene was located.

The site looked to be a new construction, possibly a parking structure. A two story deep pit cradled a concrete shell with protruding rebar and piping. A mobile crane vehicle was parked to the side.

Lestrade led them around it to where a few more people were gathered somberly. They wore blue plastic coveralls and gloves, gathering forensic evidence from various places around where Honor guessed was the body.

As they rounded the front of the crane, Honor could see what had happened. A load of thick, metal piping lay in a heap in the mud, the long crane boom also angled forward to the ground. From under some of the piping extended the legs of the obvious victim.

Sherlock stopped a couple of paces short of the body where a man with long, dark hair was taking pictures.

"Move Anderson." Said Sherlock shortly. The man turned around with an expression of unbridled hate on his face.

"Lestrade!" Anderson said to their guide with an icy tone.

Lestrade shot him a tired glare like a mother trying to settle a row between her two children. "I told you I was calling him and to hurry up. I was hoping you'd want to avoid this."

Anderson's pinched face twisted even more as his jaw set and he walked over to Lestrade and growled. "I have worked with you for years. I have been very patient but this is against regulations and you know it. Get him out of here."

"Put it in the report Anderson. There are forms for formal complaints." Lestrade replied evenly.

"But..." Anderson started.

Sherlock was already surveying the body and said in a monotone. "I almost envy the dead sod. He doesn't have to listen to Anderson."

They all looked at Sherlock in horror.

Blinking he added. "Did I say that out loud?"

Lestrade had lowered his head and Anderson zipped down his suit from his chin, glared at them all and stomped off. As uncomfortable as Honor felt at that moment she couldn't help but notice Anderson's shirt was similar and had the same brand on the pocket as did the one the woman Donovan had. In her judgement, there could be a possibility that the shirts were associated and could now see why Sherlock had made the cruel comment about the possible affair between the pair. Of course it seemed the two had an unfriendly relationship and history she wasn't aware of also.

"Go on." Sherlock ordered her. Honor didn't move.

"I don't do well with violent scenes." She had been avoiding looking at the mangled victim.

"Oh brilliant. Then what was the point of bringing you? Hurry up."

Lestrade was also beginning to voice his concern. "Look Sherlock. If she isn't comfortable let's just leave it. I shouldn't be letting just any tourist full access…"

Honor could feel the nausea taking hold of her chest and she swallowed but stepped over to the body. Three pipes lay somewhat impressed into the man. As she approached she could see openings between the pipes to his abdomen, chest and head. A groan escaped her tense throat and she turned her head away. The unnatural way his limbs compounded the gruesome display and Honor hurried back, passing Holmes and Lestrade. She couldn't hold it in and began heaving near the rear of the crane.

"Finished?" Holmes asked placidly and stepped over to the body himself.

Squatting down he took out his magnifying glass and began to study the body.

"We got a call from a coworker about two hours ago. We kept the man for questioning but I don't think he was involved. He'd come back for something and found him just like that the crane still running."

"Time of death fairly recent. Construction worker for 10 + years. Been in a fight within the last week. Happily married. Suffered from some sort of asthma..." Sherlock began to ramble.

"At first we thought it was just an accident but one of the boom controller leavers inside was damaged. Like it's been hit by a bullet. Then we found the slug in the cab." Said Lestrade.

Hopping up Sherlock crossed over to the crane's cab, examining its interior. Lestrade followed him.

"So now we're trying to figure out if it was a bloody good shot that made the load drop on him or what." He said to Sherlock.

"Please, detective inspector. Stop speculating, it's throwing me off." Sherlock murmured as he looked at a hole in the glass of the window that aligned with the lever. Lestrade looked down sheepishly in silence.

After a few minutes, Sherlock got back down from the cab.

"This shot didn't release the pipes." He concluded.

Completely bewildered, Lestrade said, "Then what…?"

"It was the second shot." Came Honor's voice from the rear of the crane. Both the men looked back at her paled face.

"The second?" Lestrade asked.

Nodding, she moved to the front of the crane and pointed at the ground. Unnoticed at first, a small puddle of dark brown, oily liquid had run under the crane and settled in the churned mud. A drip from some exposed hydraulic mechanism at the base of the long arm of the crane showed the path the flow. A hose had been torn open, now bleeding slow drops of the same fluid.

Sherlock looked closely, nodding.

"Damage sustained by a Lapua or Norma magnum cartridge. It's probably laying around here somewhere." He said then looked around, eyes fixing on a neighboring building. "He shot from there. Perhaps he's left some bread crumbs."

"What's that?" Honor pointed under the curvature of one of the pipes, pressed into the mud and hardly visible.

Lestrade reached under with a gloved hand, removing a muddy, brown fold of leather.

Opening it he said. "It's his wallet."

A small piece of paper escaped the sleeve of cards Lestrade was looking through and fluttered to the ground. Sherlock picked it up, his face tensing. Honor could almost see his mind responding to a sparked memory and him drawing upon the vast data banks in his brain.

"I think we have our connection." He said passing the paper to the DI.

Honor caught only a glimpse of the printing on the small paper. It was a ticket stub of some kind, she only caught the word: Daresey.

"Look back at all the other possibly related murders. I wager they're connected by this football club. Text me the details." Sherlock turned and began to walk swiftly back the way they had come.

Awkwardly Honor nodded to Lestrade and hurried after Holmes. Almost having to break into a trot to keep up with him she was feeling too ill to inquire about anything that had just happened. From what she had seen she could piece together what had happened to the poor man but apparently there had been similar attacks in the past that Holmes felt could have been performed by the same shooter. Lestrade had been right, the marksman's skill was incredible if her guess at the angle and distance he had fired from was right.

At the road, Holmes veered right down the pavement. Honor felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of her feverish face. The tightness in her chest felt like it was compressing on her heart, making it beat harder and faster. Try as she might, she could not keep up to him and Sherlock pulled farther ahead of her.

"Mr. Holmes... I think I need to sit down." She called breathlessly.

Without a word he continued on; crossing the street and entering the building.

The sun was sinking behind the skyline, taking with it what little warmth the light had brought. Honor wasn't sure if she was shivering from the cold or experiencing tremors and she pulled her arms closer to her as she ungracefully plopped down on a concrete retaining wall. The street and sky felt like they were turning inside out and Honor put her face in her hands trying to still the force she felt weighing on her body.

 _"Get on with it!"_ Came a bellow in her head.

Honor pushed her head into her hands harder.

The voice was now soft as she heard it again. " _I had to see it for myself."_

She looked up through a section of hair that had escaped her bun and blinked painfully at a familiar man. How did she know him? _"_ _Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine.._ _."_

She had heard this before, it was an echo of a memory. Then she remembered the blow. The same face was twisted in anger as the man's hand struck her. She had felt the pain felt like it was so far away, just like when she had felt the sear in her back.

A hand nudged her arm. The man stretched over her, his eyes stern.

"Come on let's go." His calloused tone made her feel suddenly defensive and she leaned away from him.

"Honor. Get up." He insisted.

"Get away from me." She growled, the world still stretching and retracting around them. With a sigh he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She clenched her fist and tried to hit him but he caught her wrist easily.

"I won't solve them anymore, no matter what you and Sean do to me!" Honor fought to free her arms but she felt the weakness in her muscles give to the steel grip that held her.

"Honor. It's me. Holmes."

Her mind turned this over skeptically but she calmed her struggling. Yes. It is. She looked at him as if he had simply appeared in front of her, steadying the ground and taming gravity. The conformation of reality settled on her slowly like waking from a nightmare to the relief of consciousness.

With a raised eyebrow, Sherlock released her.

"Some sort of delirium?" He asked as though it were as serious as a cold.

Feeling oddly embarrassed, Honor only nodded. Her body felt frail but she forced her muscles to steady as much as she could. A couple of people had stopped along the walk watching suspiciously. Sherlock did not seem to notice or more likely he didn't care.

"Let's go." He turned and went to the curb, waving down a cab.

When one pulled over he opened the door and got in. Honor followed sluggishly.

"Are we going somewhere else or back to your apartment...flat?" She tried not to sound too whiny.

The door shut, the cab was now cruising through the congested streets. Holmes must have been lost in his thoughts because he only replied with a faint. "Hmm?"

It wasn't worth the effort she decided. Honor leaned her head on the window frame and let the exhaustion wrap her like a blanket.

It couldn't have been more than minutes later she heard, "You look terrible." he said.

She straightened up. "Thank you." She didn't try to mask the sarcasm.

Eyes on his phone he continued, "I think your observations and deductions back there, although crude, were satisfactory."

Resentment welled up in Honor's chest at his tactless and odd comment, "I'm so glad. I'm sure you had already figured all that out or would have anyway." She snapped.

"Assuredly. Still, you look like you could use a drink. Would you like to pick something up?" His offer was surprisingly human and she wasn't quite prepared for it.

"I don't drink. I mean I never have." She admitted.

This did win her a quizzical stare from him. But it was gone as soon as it came.

"Well then, anything else to calm your nerves?"

"A toothbrush." It just came out before she could think and a half smile lifted his face.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change.

"Stop here." He ordered the driver then handed the coins to her. "There's a shop right there."

Honor looked at him blankly. She could not believe what she was hearing. For all his perceptiveness, he thought she could do this and walk back to the flat by herself? She had no idea where she was and although she did feel better, what if that were only temporary? The temptation to hit him again was overwhelming. She bit her lip, her chest rising and falling with each upset breath. If he noticed he did not show it.

"Go on, the meter's running. I'll see you at home." He urged irritably.

Parting company with him would probably be the best idea at the moment anyway or she would end up in jail for assault or worse. Honor exited the cab and slammed the door, watching it swerve back into traffic.


	11. Chapter 11

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **I promised pancakes and so here they are! Thanks for reading! Comments are appreciated!**

* * *

Besides the processing of facts and projection of their indications, Sherlock found trivial thought distasteful and worse, boring. He was however, as the taxi pulled away from Ms. Roswell, finding himself intrigued by the differences between his own mind and hers. There was no doubt she was brilliant, sensible and abnormal. But she was obviously disappointingly slow and infantile in applying her skill to such work as he had. Being sick after seeing such a mild homicide almost inclined him to be shameful of her. But she had recovered in a timely manner and made some helpful contributions.

Night was settled and London beginning it's long hours of insomnia. The cab stopped at a crowded street and pedestrians began to flow around the cars. A yellow post it note appeared on the window next to him: _Dinner tonight?_ It read. He turned around, scanning out the window but whomever had stuck it there was lost in the swelling crowd and the car inched away.

It had been three months and 20 days since he had seen Irene last in Budapest. In front of the Pest Redout along the waters of the Danube, she had gotten into a taxi without a word and left. Sherlock quickly ushered the emotion-twinging thoughts out of his head and returned to the relentless yet comfortable ideas and solving processes of investigation.

* * *

Glancing down resentfully at the foam cup of coffee, Gareth walked swiftly through the hallways of Westerham. His nerves were raw but he did not plan on resting tonight. This was his fourth coffee in three hours and he felt the speed of his heart racing. He had spent four solid hours in the security office watching the footage of the previous early morning hours for any clue of what had happened to Honor Roswell. There had been nothing. He had kept her in that area because of the lack of surveillance so his comings and goings to her room wouldn't be documented. But there was no way she could have passed through the main building halls without at least one camera catching her in one of the foyers. It was a secure facility! There had been nothing on the recordings, simply desolate halls and an identifiable worker patrolling every so often.

Now orderlies backed out of his way when they saw him coming, he had failed miserably in hiding his anxiety and fired two people already today. The pressure was building and he had to find an outlet.

He fumbled with his keys to unlock his office door and entered the dark room scowling. Turning on a lamp light on his desk he looked at his watch, 9:00pm. So preoccupied, he stepped over to his compounding station and took a long drink of the hot liquid.

"I had to have missed something." He mumbled to himself.

"Indeed." Came the glossy response from behind him.

Spinning around Gareth sloshed half of the coffee onto his hand but kept from dropping it completely. James lay on his couch watching him with a crooked smile.

He knew. Gareth didn't know how he had found out or the extent but somehow Jim knew about Honor's disappearance.

The scalding coffee was running down his arm, into the sleeve of his shirt but he hardly noticed.

"Jim. I didn't expect you. How did you get in here?" Gareth tried to sound casual.

Moriarty was looking at one of the thick reference books taken from the shelves that took up the entire wall.

"Stockholm syndrome...was that what you were going for? Oh anyone can get in here Sean. Honestly." He was wearing thin leather gloves and tossed the book onto the seat beside him then stood up energetically.

Frowning, Gareth sat the dripping cup down on his desk and found a handkerchief. Dabbing at his hand he watched Moriarty approach, looking around curiously.

"You could have called. I have a lot of things to catch up on." Said Gareth, trying to hide his fear.

James poked about at the solutions and vials on the compounding table.

"Yes. It's rather inconvenient when people don't call when things happen." His implied meaning obvious. Jim picked up a vial that Gareth had just mixed.

"I can't even pronounce this!" Moriarty grinned as he looked at the label, "But it doesn't look like it is your average psych med. Who were you going to knock off with this?"

The fact that Moriarty could recognize a poison, mislabeled or not, when he saw one didn't surprise Gareth. As a genius of the criminal persuasion he obviously knew something of adverse chemicals. But now Gareth knew he was just toying with him so he sighed.

"She's gone. Vanished." He confessed and unbuttoned his sleeve to wipe his forearm down to his elbow.

The same grin remained on James' face, but his eyes had changed to unstable seriousness.

"I know." Was all he said. "Don't you watch youtube?"

A sudden thought took Gareth and he asked hopefully. "What? Wait...was it you? Did you take her?"

Glass couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it. Only one other person he knew of could have done it and now this was by far the better scenario in his opinion. Unless...James had the notion he needed to dispose of her. Relief was pushed aside by worry laced with anger. But he kept his face smooth, watching Moriarty rummage around in his drawer.

"No I didn't. And neither did Monroe. Isn't that who you were going to present this toxic little cocktail to? That temper is going to get you into trouble again cousin." He pulled out a syringe and extracted some of the yellow liquid.

Glass watched him nervously, taking a step back. Flicking the barrel customarily Moriarty continued. "If there is any suspicion, anyone nosing around, it would make everything we've done worth nothing. I've worked hard on this. It's going to fund a lot of exciting plans I have coming up."

"I-I haven't told anyone. I mean I told them she was still in London at hospital. But I have to locate her quickly." Gareth stammered.

His cousin's smile slowly faded and he took a step towards Gareth. "There will not be any easy way of cleaning this mess up Sean. There are probably other 'variables' we will have to take care of now as well. Your incompetence has made everything unnecessarily complicated."

Paralyzed, Gareth could only lean back, pinned by his desk. James held the ready syringe inches away from his neck.

"How do you know it wasn't Monroe? I swear no one else had access..." Glass tried to deflect the blame lamely.

A small smile revived Moriarty's face. "I've just had dinner with her. Went back to her place. She's a talker. You know she doesn't like you very much."

Sweat was amassing on Gareth's brow, he felt the tip of the needle prick the skin of his neck.

"Just think _Dr. Glass_ , if it got out in the open about your nasty little past. All that unauthorized human testing gone wrong. Why you had to change your name. I bet Monroe would have a field day with that."

Trying to keep as still as possible, Gareth suppressed the urge to swallow. "Jim. Help me please. I will do anything. Tell me what to do."

Moriarty's eyes narrowed, as if a debate was raging in that exceptional head of his. By and by he pulled the needle away, pointing its tip in the air and then suppressing the plunger. The drug spouted into the air, sprinkling both of them. Gareth still stood rigid, not wanting to instigate his cousin's reconsideration.

Playfully, Jim took the handkerchief from Gareth's grip and loosely wiped at his own face then Gareth's. "Well, family first you know. I have a few things to do then I shall locate your missing pet. But remember you owe me. Oh, I have a lovely little fairy tale video I made on the side, you can play it for your patients, tell me how they like it."

Jim pulled a dvd case out and tossed it onto the desk.

Gareth nodded hastily as Moriarty backed away, buttoning up his coat and going to the door.

"Anything I can assist you with?" Gareth asked, taking a deep breath.

Pausing, Moriarty looked at him mischievously. "No, I'm going diamond shopping."

Even though he felt he had narrowly escaped a possible death, Gareth couldn't help himself.

"Oh? A gift for someone special?" He asked curiously, never knowing his cousin to don jewelry besides his ring, cufflinks and the like.

This brought a strangely pleased look to Moriarty's face and he replied. "Something like that."

Then he opened the door and left.

Gareth slumped into his chair and let his pulse slow. He was beginning to think gaining Moriarty's help would cost more than he wanted to pay.

* * *

Dipping temperatures felt even more frigid with the wind chill just after midnight.

In the shadows of the clustered row houses a slight figure scaled a back wall silently. The window above was open despite the sub-freezing temperatures and the woman smiled. With one last effort she slipped through the window into the blackness of the room.

Behind her the curtains swayed gently in the exchange of pressures between inside and outside. She didn't have to wait for her eyes to adjust, she knew the room and its layout. But she still stood quietly, letting the anticipation swell. Now she could see the bed's definition just feet in front of her and a familiar form lying motionless under the duvet.

Smiling to herself she walked softly around to the other side, slipping off her coat, dark trousers and climbing shoes. The bed creaked lowly as she eased into it, the silk nightgown she wore sliding easily. She waited again, listening to the soft breathing of the man so close to her now. Slow and deep, could he actually be asleep?

With the window light on his other side, she could see he was laying on his back, eyes closed. She scooted closer, inching her face into the space behind his ear, the thick curls of his hair brushing her nose and cheek.

The light flickered on. Slightly deflated, Irene brought her head back a little so she could see his face. Sherlock stared straight at the ceiling, his hand still grasping the cord of the lamp.

"Hello sexy." She teased.

"What are you doing here?" He asked coldly.

Irene couldn't pass this up. "You're the brilliant detective. You haven't figured it out? I could give you a few more clues." She spoke provocatively.

Sliding her hand to him under the covers she paused as she felt his chest.

"Are you still dressed?" She asked, genuinely surprised.

He looked over at her undeterred.

"You said you would be out of contact for some time for a job." Sherlock continued, ignoring her question.

Propping her head up on her hand she smiled, her high cheek bones still red from the night's exposure.

"I got a better offer. Come on Shirley, aren't you glad to see me?" She let her other hand glide over his shirt.

This did provoke a change in his face and his eyebrows narrowed slightly. "Don't call me that."

"Grumpy tonight aren't we? Let's see what we can do about that." She crawled over to look down at him and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. The lack of response made her pull back.

"You know it was cute at first but now it's mainly aggravating that you don't kiss me back." She complained.

His gray-green eyes were undaunted by her intensely azure ones.

"I thought it was made perfectly clear that I had no jurisdiction over your behaviors I don't know why the same wouldn't apply for me." He finished logically.

Irene pursed her lips in irritation.

"You're still on about about my profession choice aren't you." She purred smoothly, her emotional walls rising and she began to slip into character.

Running her fingers through his hair he reached up and took hold of her arm, a strange, sad look deepening in his eyes.

"Don't. Don't start on me like you do...them." He began to sit up, forcing her to slump to the side as he brought his legs over the side of the bed.

"For someone who doesn't want anything to do with attachment you seem to be very sentimental." Irene said to his back. "I think I've offered you the perfect situation Sherlock. Experience people pay me fortunes for, no strings attached. You said it was 'optimal'." She pointed out.

"Maybe I was wrong." The quiet reply came over his shoulder.

Moving over to him, Irene put her chin on his shoulder.

"What do you want? To settle down? Have a dutiful companion who waits for you to come home to them. I don't think so. You would be bored within the week. You need change, just like me. Danger and stimulation. Besides, no normal girl would come near you. You are frightening." She glanced down at the floor. "Are you wearing shoes as well?"

"I don't care for normal, but genuine would be nice. And how long until you get bored of me? Please go Irene." He looked over at her, his voice solid and cold again.

She only hesitated a moment then shrugged. "Suit yourself darling. I won't wait forever."

She returned to her clothing and slipped them on indifferently.

"Mind if I use the front door Shirley?" The question left in the air and she left his room without waiting for a response.

He remained, sitting on the edge of the bed, listening for the front door to open and close. The conformation didn't come and he knew she had seen the sleeping figure on the couch.

Shortly her rash face appeared again in the doorway.

"Who is that?" she demanded.

"Refreshingly jealous? Never mind. She's no one Irene. A 'normal' girl." His reply carrying finality with it.

Irene knew there would be no more talking tonight and she spun on her heel through the door again. This time the main door slammed shut.

Sherlock waited, but there was no further stirring. He felt very tired and laid back down, fully clothed shirt to shoes and turned out the light.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, a curious aroma brought John down earlier than usual.

It was his day off and he wanted to allow himself a lay in. But the warm, inviting smell was tempting enough and he jogged down the steps in his pajamas and through the open door to the kitchen of their flat.

Standing silently he saw the american girl and Mrs. Hudson chatting cheerfully over the stove. A steaming pile of pancakes mounting on a plate on the counter.

Honor turned and saw him, bringing Mrs. Hudson's attention as well. The landlady greeted him with a high pitched, "Good morning! You must watch this Doctor! She can flip them in the air above your head!"

Honor was pouring another pancake in the pan and said matter-of-factually. "It supposedly improves the flavor?" She tired with a small smile.

John returned the smile reassuringly and sat down at the vibrantly clean table. Hesitantly his hands lingered over the surface.

"I bleached it Doctor." Assured Honor with a wink.

He was unable to contain a chuckle and leaned forward confidently. A tall shadow fell over them and they all turned to see Sherlock's swaying figure wrapped in his blanket shoulder to foot. His barely cognizant eyes squinted at the scene groggily.

"Has anyone seen my bloody phone?" He inquired.

Mrs. Hudson and John shook their heads and cast their eyes about in search.

"You took it to your room last night." Honor said flipping the pancake with one hand and held up the phone with her other. "Then I think it was tossed on me in the middle of the night."

"Ah." Was all he responded but it was understood Honor knew it hadn't been by him.

As if suddenly aware, he sniffed the air with a pinched face. "Is that...breakfast?"

Mrs. Hudson answered with enthusiasm. "They've got blueberries in them Sherlock. Do have one! She's made a 'whole mess of them'." The woman tried to imitate in a yankee accent.

"And go put on some clothes while you're at it mate." John threw in lightly.

Defiantly, Sherlock let the blanket fall to the ground, earning some gasps and shocked faces. He still wore his clothes from yesterday, even down the the shoes. Retaining his stony facial expression he gave no indication of satisfaction at their initial reaction.

John began to laugh. "Well that took a turn for the better. Oh look, real maple syrup."

Mrs. Hudson was setting the table while Honor flipped a pancake into the air, catching it with ease.

"I had to go to two stores to find it. Maple syrup isn't very popular?" Honor inquired conversationally.

About to answer, John was spoken over by Sherlock. "Pesky Canadian tariffs possibly." He said facetiously and picked up a pancake, folded it and took a bite. "Where did you get the money for this?" He added suspiciously.

Averting her eyes, Honor shrugged. "From the lining of your violin case where you hide your cigarettes."

John's head snapped towards Sherlock who was looking back to where the violin case sat seemingly undisturbed.

"Sherlock..." John began, but Sherlock leaned against the table coolly defensive.

"I suppose I shouldn't have high expectations of your manners." He said.

Honor flipped the last pancake onto the pile and sat the pan down. "You're one to talk about manners. You left me on a street corner after you knew I had had a severe withdraw episode and let me walk almost ten blocks back here. But if it makes you feel better, there is the window. Mrs. Hudson has told me you have a proud tradition here at Baker Street of throwing Americans out of them." She suggested resentfully, her brown eyes daring. She tossed the phone at him and he caught it easily.

"Only the violent ones dear." Mrs. Hudson interjected quickly.

"And the mouthy ones." Sherlock's voice remained irritatingly calm but he was game.

John stood up and stepped around the table to confront his friend. "Back up a bit. You told me to help you quit smoking..."

"Oh John drop it please." Sherlock snipped but John continued.

"And you never told me she had been having withdraw symptoms. I told you to let me know. I have to agree with 'the american', you're one to talk about manners anyhow." He reprimanded.

Sherlock stood his ground, still glaring at Honor. "Well John, it seems I remember you saying something rather rude recently, 'daft american bird' was it? And Mrs. Hudson, this one qualifies under both categories, mouthy and violent. When she was suffering from her 'episode' she tried to hit me again. Seems you have a very good swing for a helpless country girl. Training perhaps?"

"My dad taught me to box a bit." She sat down and drizzled syrup on her pancake.

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands in the intensity of the conversation.

"Sherlock, not the window." She fretted as if she was unsure of what he might actually do.

John turned to Honor. "Look I'm very sorry about that, remark. Very poor choice of words. Do you mind if I monitor you for a few hours today? Severe withdrawal can be very dangerous." He said.

Changing quickly from anger to embarrassment, Honor looked to John. "Oh don't worry about that Dr. Watson. And I feel better now. Really."

"It's no trouble, Just a quick look over and vitals. Basics."

Sherlock had gone to his violin case and assessing it said, "You'll have to follow her to Bart's then Watson. We'll be leaving in a hour or so."


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

As soon as the cab pulled up to St. Bartholomew's hospital, Sherlock was out the door and walking around the side of the building. After the tight ride with the three of them squeezed in the back seat of the taxi, the desire for dispersal was mutual.

John hung back, walking next to Honor. Mrs. Hudson had loaned her a pair of slacks and a red cardigan which she wore over the white t-shirt she had been wearing when she arrived just yesterday. Half of her hair she had pinned to the crown of her head, letting the bottom half fall to her waist.

Trying to defuse the obvious strain of the situation from this morning and also lessen his strange intimidation he felt from the two apparent genius', John tried to make light conversation. So far, it seemed the girl was doing well dealing with the withdraw symptoms from whatever drug she had been on. Although he suspected she was suffering from the tranquilizer based effects more than she let on. Still, even though she was practically a stranger, he found her easy and pleasant to talk to. Quite different than his highly strung friend Sherlock Holmes. Many of their differences were interesting, but he could also see the hyper-cognitive processes they had in common.

Sherlock had already disappeared into a side door of the building when John and Honor rounded the corner and proceeded to follow. John opened the door with a smile and Honor thanked him and entered. Inside she stopped short and her face paled. John watched for a moment, sensing the change in her mood then asked carefully. "Are you alright Honor?"

With no immediate response, he put his hand on her back gently. "Honor?"

She blinked and looked at him a little dazed. "Sorry Doctor. I guess I'm a little sensitive towards hospitals now." She attempted to brush it off.

"Please, call me John. So formal, after I called you a daft american after all?"

He seemed to have succeeded in lightening the mood when he saw the first really big smile from her yet. They began to walk again.

Taking the stairs, they descended two flights into the basement of the hospital. The sparse personnel they had encountered disappeared entirely here. They walked down a wide, empty hall to a double door entry with the sign "Morgue" atop the frame. Again, John opened the door for her, this time she looked at him obviously dispirited. Here he couldn't blame her. As a doctor he had surmounted the natural reservations people in general had about the dead. But he empathized and smiled encouragingly.

"It's not so bad." He lied. Her smile was appreciative yet skeptical.

Inside, a large room lined with refrigeration units was brightly lit. Two stainless steel tables awaited sullenly their purpose in the middle of the room.

John quickly led them to another hallway at the other end of the room and to the doors marked 'Laboratory'.

"Much more pleasant in here I promise." He said as they entered.

Molly Hooper looked up from a clipboard at the far end of the large room. Standing over a human-shaped bag her face fell slightly as she looked from John to Honor.

Sherlock had his back to them and was seated at a table already cluttered with graduated cylinders, microscopes and other equipment.

"Alright Molls?" John asked lightheartedly.

An automatic smile returned and she gave a half wave.

"Morning John." She blinked and looked back down at her paperwork.

Stepping around Honor he motioned for her to follow him. He wove his way around the tables and large equipment and approached the pathologist.

"Molly I don't think you've been introduced. This is Honor Roswell who is with us at the moment."

Courteously Molly and Honor exchanged smiles and murmured their greetings to each other.

"Molly is a top-notch pathologist and all around lovely person. She can hold her own at bingo I might add."

A groan from behind them reminded them of the presence of Holmes who obviously was getting annoyed by the chatter. John ignored it, waving his hand dismissively. The girls looked at Sherlock whose face was pressed to the microscope then shyly at each other and both began to talk at the same time. Nervously they laughed and again simultaneously tried to concede to the other earning another heavy sigh from the pensive detective.

Now they had genuine grins on their faces and Honor said, "This is a very impressive facility you have here Ms. Hooper. How long have you been here?"

Thoughtfully Molly replied. "Four years now I think. Yes I'm quite happy with it. Not a lot of customer service or complaints to deal with you know." She joked.

Honor smiled.

"What part of america are you from? Anna was it?" Molly followed up.

"'Honor' Molly. Unique isn't it?" John spoke, taking the opportunity to join the conversation.

"And spelled improperly." Came the negative interjection from Sherlock.

"What are you working on there Sherlock?" John's innocent question bristling with warning in its tone. Showing factitious understanding, Sherlock didn't answer and they turned back to each other.

"Idaho. Central." Honor bridged the interruption.

"Ah. And how long are you staying?" Molly's casual question disclosed obvious personal concern.

Honor glanced at John then over at Sherlock, beginning to discern the dynamics of the situation. Piecing together the relationships between the three close friends. Delicate and complicated.

The way Molly glanced over at Sherlock conveyed obvious signs any girl would jilted in love but continued on bravely. She was distracted enough by Sherlock to not notice her fingers nervously tapping the gripped clipboard, her cheeks flushed slightly every time her eyes strayed to him, and unconsciously she would reach to straighten the thick ponytail that hung at her neck. Yet there seemed to be a close comfort with Watson, as if they were comrades who had weathered several battles together and had trust and regard for each other.

"Not sure yet. I do hope to get to see some more of England though. I have never been here." Honor said brightly.

"I see," Nodded Molly "Just arrived then? How do you know John and Sherlock?"

Honor should have been prepared for this but she stammered.

Sherlock leaned back from the table and folded his arms.

"Molly, Ms. Roswell has just left Westerham asylum against medical advice and is possibly being searched for by the authorities or other interested groups. She has a slight case of memory failure and suffering from heavy drug withdrawal. Her situation is one that requires my expertise and I would ask you to refrain from inquiring further for the benefit of all parties."

The blatancy hit like an open handed slap. Even John stood there speechless while the girls gawked.

Finally Molly looked back at Honor, the fresh. delicate civility which had been established between them now trampled under the feet of Sherlock's sledgehammer disclosure.

Molly still held Honor with her concerned eyes. "Westerham? I don't understand, that's a penal facility isn't it? What...did you do?" She asked softly.

Honor glanced at John then replied. "I didn't know. I can't remember clearly. I wouldn't do...I couldn't, I..."

"For goodness sakes I just told you Molly to leave it." Sherlock stood up and stalked to a refrigerator poking around in it's continents.

Molly shot him a severe glare, "I am not comfortable with an escaped...lunatic here in the morgue. No offence." She added to Honor who looked at the floor.

Nodding in understanding Honor began to back up nervously. Obviously wanting to respect Molly's wishes but Sherlock straightened up, a beaker in his hand, and sighed.

"Molly, you needn't worry I'll sort it out. Please." His ending plead seemed to catch her off guard and her face slowly relaxed.

"Ok," She said finally. "This once."

Looking back to Honor, suspicion creasing her brow she excused herself and turned back to the awaiting body. It took all her strength to push the gurney into motion and then she steered it through a set of doors.

When she had gone John turned to Sherlock, "Lovely. Very tactful Sherlock. Entirely unnecessary."

Honor stared at Sherlock for only a moment then went back through the other door they had come in.

Sherlock sat down, unconcerned. "John, I just wanted to save time by filling Molly in up front so they would quit their silly snoopy song and dance that could stretch out for days. I saved us all a headache. Remember where 'kind' got us with Molly dating Moriarty?" He concluded.

"Well you've embarrassed them and yourself with your silver tongue. It's going to be awkward either way now." John looked from one doorway to the next, not knowing which to go after.

Finally he trailed through the doors where Molly had gone, leaving Sherlock to himself.

After five minutes he heard the hallway door open again quietly. He could feel Honor's eyes at the back of his head and he waited. He didn't have to wait for long when she broke the silence.

"Mr. Holmes, whatever odd analysis you are conducting in comparing your intellect to mine I think you have just had a breakthrough. Anything you are trying to 'improve' upon me I have no desire to learn. I think I've made a mistake." She said decidedly. "I shouldn't have involved you and especially your friends. Thank you anyway."

He turned as she began to back out the door. "Actually I have found quite the opposite. I never expected you to be an exact duplicate of me and find your contrasting perspective very enlightening. As for John and Molly I think you have underestimated them."

"Either way, I feel like I'm not any closer to resolving my situation than I was when I met you. I've apparently helped you and I don't regret that but I am just not interested in joining team Sherlock and his crime fighting escapades." Honor finished and went back through the doors.

Jumping up, Sherlock walked swiftly after her.

As she was reaching the main doors of the morgue he came through saying, "Impatience is a fault we do share. May I remind you that it's only been a day since you showed up on my doorstep in your knickers and you haven't exactly been forthcoming with any information. I not only have to find the solution to your problem but also discover what the problem is itself." He pointed out.

With an exasperated sigh Honor turned to face him. "Ok, go ahead. Ask me anything."

"Who is Sean?" He fired.

Honor averted her eyes. "There are some things I'm still not sure of. The medication..."

Sherlock's cool demeanor dropped and he raised his voice over hers.

"You cannot pick and choose what you tell me Honor. I need answers when I ask for them. If this investigation is dragging out a bit too long for you then you have yourself to blame." He almost yelled.

"Stop shouting Mr. Holmes! You need to learn to control your temper!" Honor fumed.

"Similarity number two." Sherlock emphasized.

He stepped closer, Honor did not give up any ground and kept her face steely even as he overshadowed her.

"Who is Sean?" He repeated.

"I...I want to say Dr. Glass." The answer came unsure.

Sherlock moved on quickly. "Correct. Yesterday you referred to me as someone else besides Sean when you were delirious. Who is that?"

"I don't know." Honor said softly, "I can't remember who he was, someone important, ruthless."

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock pulled out his phone, thumbing through the picture gallery to the photos of her strange drawings.

"What is this?" He demanded.

She studied the images she had drawn in her haze at the asylum with no immediate recognition. At first confusion clouded her features then she spoke. "This looks a lot like the design on a broach my grandma used to wear. Wait," She looked closer. "I drew these. They are, formulas."

Sherlock nodded. "Right again. Now what I really need from you is to tell me what the formula is and why Glass and Mr. X wanted you to develop it for them."

He let it settle for a moment then added, "Do you still want my help? If you say yes then I can't have you always having these rows where you walk out in a tiff."

Thoughtfully Honor looked back to Sherlock, "Alright, but I have a condition as well, you'll ask me first before you go blabbing who I am...or what these formulas are."

Their shared glares simmered down into peers of consideration.

"Agreed." Sherlock finally said, "Wait here."

He returned with pencil and paper which she took looking at the drawings on his phone she wrote down possible combinations of the chemical reactions.

Sherlock had commenced to pacing rigorously, his fingers matched together and pressed to his chin.

"If you could just think of anything else, especially about the man, what he looked like, the cut of his suit or anything useful..." He mumbled.

The pencil stopped and Honor felt the rush of a clear memory precipitating. She had been writing, like this, someone was behind her. She knew she had seen his face, but try as she might, it would not focus in her mind now. Flinching, she let a gasp of de'javued pain escape her lips and she reached over her back at her shoulder. Sherlock did not miss this and he understood immediately.

"The burn?" He said in hopes of helping her memory on.

Honor only nodded, and Sherlock ventured. "May I see it?"

Hesitantly she nodded again. Honor awkwardly tried to position her arm behind her back to pull at the sweater and t-shirt then re-situated to just pulling the neckline over the edge of her shoulder and pulling her hair away to expose the right shoulder blade.

Sherlock's eyes followed the swoop of her neckline to the shoulder. Beauty was not a fact, was it? Then why was he transfixed at this moment? Attraction? He had felt something similar long ago when Irene had slid her hand into his. Diluted compared to this strong emotion that gripped him where he stood.

Defensively he pushed at the distressing feeling with irritation, clearing his throat quickly.

"So he did this to you?" He hastily pulled out his magnifying glass and inspected the mark closely, refraining from any contact. Honor nodded once again.

Abruptly he shut the magnifying glass with a snap and resumed his all-business air. "The impression is very obscure now do to the inflammation, if I had been able to see it when you first arrived it may have been easier to depict." His reprimand was taken in silence and he leaned around to retrieve his phone. Taking a close up photo he then sat it back down on the table for her.

"I'll be back in the lab. Let me know when you have finished." He instructed as he turned and left.

Honor shrugged the shirt back into place, feeling the sting of the wound as the material brushed against it.

She stayed in the room, almost grateful for the privacy, for some time. Some of the drawings began to connect in an order, making it easier and easier to write them in a legible manner. There were three she concluded were separate and unrelated processes. But one of them was more in depth. The progressive formulation of reactions were complicated and in some instances Honor couldn't believe she had written them. This was for two reasons: one because they were unorthodox, non-intuitive to common procedure. The second reason was seemingly redundant steps which there was no ground for that she could see.

It reminded her of Mr. Holmes' social MO. The stray thoughts distracted her as she worked.

Still, what she considered the final formula appeared in front of her and she stared at it for a while. Finally she looked up to the digital clock on the wall, almost 4 o'clock. She had been standing there for hours and a weak ache in her legs confirmed this. This did not surprise her as it had happened often when she worked in the lab at the university, or on the deserted top floor of the school library.

She had lost days there buried in textbooks, journals and studies. Wedged into her favorite old, ratty chair that must have survived half a forgotten century there, she indulged her racing, starving brain like a junkie. Looking down from a narrow window she would see other students sitting and talking, walking together casually, or sleeping, sprawled out on the grass. She almost envied the relaxed mode one would have to be in to be comfortable in such obliviousness. A mode she had rarely achieved. Any social situation she had found herself in she either fell silent, not knowing how to make simple conversation or she would begin to ramble, jumping from tangent to tangent. This earned her superficial acquaintances at best, accept in class or lab work. Then there always seemed to be a few sudden 'friends' that would look over her shoulder, copy down what they needed and disappear after finals. She had been told she was pretty but apparently it was not enough and her strangeness would overwhelm any interested parties. It never offended her or made her cross, but she could not ignore the loneliness she felt.

Honor pulled herself back to the present, gathered the pile of papers and, with some reservation, went back into the lab.

Laughter was brought short as John and Molly looked up from a counter they sat at. Sherlock still sat at his spot undisturbed.

Honor managed a smile at their attention. Molly looked fretful at first but then returned the smile.

Standing John picked up a white bag and said, "We picked up lunch a while ago. You looked very occupied so we left you alone."

Honor hadn't remembered anyone passing through the room she had been in and almost blushed.

"Oh I'm sorry. I can really zone out sometimes..." She started.

He shrugged. "Really Honor," He glanced at the inanimate Sherlock "We're not surprised at all."

Abnormally, Honor felt comforted and ventured over to them.

"It's just a sandwich, we didn't know what you would want so we just got a sandwich." Molly spoke up, the earlier aggravation nowhere to be seen.

Even though she probably should be, Honor did not feel the least bit hungry but she took the offered food.

"Thanks!" She said a little overly enthusiastic.

The two smiled warmly.

"Papers." Sherlock called from his stool authoritatively.

Molly jumped at his unexpected voice as if one of her deceased had spoken the word.

Honor was half tempted to sit down defiantly, take a bite of the sandwich and tell him to come get them. But she sighed and sat the food down instead.

The slap of the paper on the table was a little more than she meant but Sherlock did not seem to notice. He was adding, by dropper, something to a row of test tubes.

"Tell me, do you always take so long in your work? I was hoping to get you back to the states before the next presidential election." He drawled with muted sarcasm.

If John and Molly's attitudes had improved, Sherlock's seemed to have soured twice as much.

"He'll be in for a second term so I'm in no hurry." She sparred back.

He glanced up at her with an amused brow then turned to the papers, fingering through them, staring at the tiny writing.

"You're clouding." She informed and Sherlock looked back to the tubes.

"Predictably." He countered. "So what is it?"

"A negative response to the presence of iron composites?" Honor speculated.

Again he looked up at her, this time with a corner of his mouth stubbornly upturned.

"No, the formula." He pointed at the paper even though he obviously knew that she was teasing.

She pulled three pages out from under the stack and said, "These are on their own I think. This last one, It's incomplete. I'm missing a final stage."

"And?"

"And what? It has the potential to have a number of outcomes depending on this last phase. I would assume it to be gaseous, toxic to life and possibly have a very short half-life. Other than that, I can't say what it is exactly." She concluded.

Now he leaned back, his eyes locked on hers. She half expected him to come up with the answer which her pride could never have lived with.

"Interesting." He said, pulling his eyes away. "John, let's go."

John and Molly had been watching the exchange with interest.

"What? Where?" John said, standing up stiffly.

"To the police station obviously. I'll get a cab." Sherlock was up and putting his coat on.

"Molly, you can bring Honor back to the flat?" He was walking to the exit.

The girls looked at each other, the awkwardness restored.

"I rode my bike..." The pathologist began.

"Oh, well that should be interesting. See you in an hour or so." Sherlock said as he headed through the door.

John pulled out his billfold and selected two 20 pound notes, handing them to Molly. "Sorry. Here's some fare. Do you mind?"

Molly hesitated then took the money. "No it's fine. I'm almost done here."

Honor felt like an bothersome stray dog being passed around.

"I could get there ok Molly if..." She started but Molly forced a smile again.

"No problem. Really."

John left quickly and the girls were left alone. Unsettled, they fidgeted until Honor looked around.

"Can I help you? Clean up maybe? It looks like Mr. Holmes left out his mess?" She motioned to the clutter where Sherlock had been sitting.

Molly glanced over. "Oh, no...I'll get it! He has a certain way he likes it put up." She said almost possessively. Honor watched her gather up the bottles, tongs and other equipment, lingering here and there in thought. Molly obviously cared for the man deeply.

"Can I, do anything else? I'm very good with glassware washing. I end up with acid holes in my shirt every time." She attempted to joke.

A genuine smile warmed Molly's lips, then she nodded. "I have aprons."

"Why are we going to the Police Department and why not have brought Honor with us instead of dumping her on Molly?" John asked as they rode in the cab.

Rain distorted the views of the passing streets. If Sherlock had heard, he didn't answer.

"You know it wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't blurted everything out about Honor's situation like that. Plus I think it bothers Molly that she's staying with us."

Slipping into the one sided conversation mode that he was so used to John did not expect a reply now.

"I feel bad to make her sleep on that old couch. I think I'll offer her my room. But if my back starts up again I'm never going to forgive you..."

"I needed some space." Sherlock interrupted. He had his hand up to the window, tracing the trails of water as they ran down the glass.

John watched him for a moment. "From?"

"The situation."

And somehow John knew that was a request for silence.


	13. Chapter 13

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

The clear, thick plastic evidence bags lined the table. Four files with the picture of each victim paper clipped to the front of them ran parallel above. Lestrade shadowed Sherlock who was leaning over them in concentration.

John leaned against the wall of the bare room watching with his hands in his pockets. Normally he took interest in the minute clues that were missed by even the best of investigators that Sherlock picked up immediately and made frighteningly accurate deductions from them. Today it seemed he had come out of pure loyalty, finding his thoughts elsewhere.

It had taken him an hour to get more than a shallow response out of Molly. Standing over the corpses her cuts and prods were forceful and sharp, as if she were relaying her agitation onto the helpless flesh. It was almost, in some morbid way that he couldn't explain, adorable?

Sherlock had been clear and accurate in his explanation of Roswell's case but John felt as though he had to smooth it over so that Molly did not feel her a danger. What Sherlock meant to convey was not to 'mind her own business' but that the situation was delicate at the moment which he had explained to Molly. He promised to provide Molly more clarification as he could. This seemed to soften her a bit but there was something else she suppressed in her quiet eyes and he asked her about it.

"It's just, he's never brought anyone else to the lab before." The statement was self explanatory.

John scolded himself for not realizing the protective claim she would feel not only over her department but perhaps her friends, especially Sherlock. Bringing an uninvited guest without so much as a notification would of course be intrusive. Now as he looked back on it he felt oddly bothered by her unexplainable attraction for his friend. Why was it that the nicest, sweetest, most genuine girls were always infatuated with complete arses? Instantly he felt badly about his bold label but he could not deny it was the truth. Sherlock's social skills and abilities to positively reinforce even his friends left something to be desired. Molly deserved more than that. She was smart, unselfish and John let himself think it, very pretty. Whether Sherlock was capable of appreciating this did not seem promising.

"Regrettably, you're right, definitely not." Came Sherlock's voice conveniently.

John had to look up to realize Holmes was not actually reading his thoughts although sometimes he suspected his friend might actually be capable of such a thing. But he was addressing Lestrade.

"They are all from different riffles." Lestrade shrugged. "I would have thought you would trust us to get that much right Sherlock. We are not completely inept."

The impeccable timing for ironic lead in's continued. At that moment the door opened and Anderson walked in with another investigator at his heels, the slam of the door causing the items on the table to shake.

Closing his eyes in irritation Sherlock sighed.

"You were saying?" He referred to Anderson then refocused, "Get him out of here."

Lestrade looked like a parent again caught in the middle of their children in a row. He started to speak but Anderson shook his head. "I have every right to be here, in fact, procedure demands it. You know that Lestrade."

With a reinforcing stare he stood his ground.

"He's right," Lestrade conceded helplessly. "Just stay out of the way."

Defiant, the man, followed by his companion stepped up to the table, arms folded.

Anderson looked over at John and frowned in frustration.

"Back with that one Holmes? I preferred the blonde yank. I can think of some 'assisting' she could do for me." He elbowed the other man who chuckled.

John could feel his cortisol levels climbing as Sherlock straightened up and walked over to Anderson. Picking up hefty 6 inch cross section from the construction site piping Sherlock hissed through his teeth, "I'm warning you Anderson."

With a slight flinch of fear, Anderson looked at the pipe, then unconfidently sneered. "And what are you going to do eh? Bludgeon me with that pipe? In a police station?"

Sherlock's hesitation was enough for John to step in.

"Leave it Sherlock." John calmed him, pulling at his coat.

Sherlock's jaw muscles tensed and he continued to glare at Anderson. Finally he sat the pipe down on the table carefully and turned his back to him.

"Lestrade, in the second murder in question it seems the victim was wearing a Daresay jumper. I think it's looking quite promising. Did you find out anything about any of the other victim's and if they'd also been to a football game?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Nothing yet, Donovan has been trying to get a hold of friends and family to ask them."

Sighing heavily Sherlock began to button up his coat and waved for John to follow him. He opened the door and motioned for John to go first which John found irregular but went through.

"Text me as soon as you find out anything." With a last glare at Anderson, Sherlock slammed the door shut forcefully.

Even through the heavy door they heard Anderson's cry of pain.

"What happened?" John asked alarmed.

"I hit him with the pipe." Sherlock picked up his pace and they left the station in a hurry.

* * *

At sunset they had arrived back at the black door of 221b. The fact that John found the aroma coming from 'Speedy's' enticing showed him just how hungry he was. Sighing he remembered that they had not gone to the market again today and the thought of going out again was comparable to starving.

He looked over at the door to 'Speedy's' while Sherlock entered their flat, he wasn't that desperate yet was he? There was a can of beans in the tippy top shelf he remembered from when he had set that mouse trap last summer. Ravenously he hurried to catch up to Sherlock who was half way up the stairs and realized the delicious smell was not coming from Speedy's, but from their flat.

Sherlock had slowed his step sniffing suspiciously.

"Well? Come on Sherlock." John prodded. He had seen Sherlock enter bomb-threat situations with less caution. John pushed past him. He came into the kitchen a little more eagerly than he wanted to appear.

Collected around the table was Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Honor. More estrogen than the flat had seen for quite some time, and yet it was strangely comfortable.

"Something smells, incredible." Swallowing, he could feel his salivary glands already preparing hopefully for whatever it was.

Holding up a burger bun sandwiching a shredded meat of some kind Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Pulled pork sandwiches. It was Honor's idea and I've been slow cooking it all day." Only crumbs were left on Molly's and Honor's plates. Molly was pouring Mrs. Hudson and herself another glass of wine and Honor had stood up to grab two more plates.

"Pulled what?" John hurried in taking the plates helpfully.

"Pork." Honor said. "We used to do it all the time at home."

Sherlock had antisocially settled into his chair, almost as far away from the gathering as possible.

"Sounds like a farmyard torture method. Did the pig tell you anything before it died?" He murmured sarcastically. John was surprised when it was Honor who boldly jumped subjects.

"How was the Police station?" She asked.

Only partially grateful, John replied. "Alright. A few new facts but Sherlock still managed to assault a police officer without even being in the room."

They all turned to Sherlock who had pulled out his Violin and was plucking at it.

"Anderson hardly qualifies as a police officer. Village, er Station Idiot perhaps..." He said thoughtfully.

"So what happened?" Molly had turned her chair towards the living room.

"Nothing overly complicated. Anderson was being his normal waste of space and so I conveniently placed an ample piece of evidence so that with a disturbance, it's center of gravity shifted, transitioning it's potential energy to kinetic. Point of impact, possibly three of the toes on his left foot." He finished conclusively.

John shook his head. "So I get to play the waiting game to see if Anderson presses charges and puts the great detective in prison for battery. Do you think I should take out an advert now for another flatmate?" his voice was progressively turning from sarcasm to scolding.

Both fell on deaf ears. Sherlock had closed his eyes, his fingers flying over the strings as he plucked an indistinct tune.

John sat down next to Molly, trying to avert his attention to the pleasant, rare, home cooked meal.

"Will you have some Mr. Holmes?" Honor held up a prepared plate.

The tumultuous plucking ceased and he brought the bow up and began to play long, deep minor tones. Honor simply took the plate over to the table next to him and sat it down with a napkin and fork then returned to the table.

Mrs. Hudson listened to Sherlock's playing with savor. "I should get my old piano fixed Sherlock so we could play together." She said wistfully.

"I hardly know any tele-themes Mrs. Hudson. Besides, the day I play with someone else is the day I am broken."

The dramatic comment begged for a change of subject.

"What I would like to know...well it might be rude to ask..." Molly addressed Honor as she cradled her drink.

"Asking never hurt anyone." Honor said.

"Well." Molly continued, "Westerham is a secure facility. How did you, I mean, you didn't just walk out the front door."

Honor debated briefly then shook her head. "No I didn't. Overconfidence on the part of the facility and luck played a big part." She glanced at Sherlock. "Not to mention a little help from a nosy British guy."

"Allow me to be less vague for you Molly. Once she got her head sorted from the medication and was able to open the door to her room, there was construction in the corridor. No cameras were operational in the area so she picked the lock to a toolbox and borrowed some tools, namely a metal reciprocating saw, a crowbar possibly and industrial adhesive gun." Sherlock managed to narrate whilst continuing to play.

"Those windows are ancient, it wouldn't take much to discreetly cut through an awning lock and hinges." He was looking at Honor who sat with a patient expression.

"After you had exited the room through the opened window, replacing the saw of course, you acrobatically managed to reseal the window behind you and drop to the ground from the second story. After that it was just a matter of getting past the 10' stone fence to get to the gate. Being that you were on an unoccupied side of the building there would have been little care to secure the barrier there. Here I have a couple of ideas of what you could have done but it really doesn't matter as a child could have evacuated from there."

Sherlock always spoke so fast. It added to the intensity of his deductions but really what had John taken back was accepting Honor's capability to do what Sherlock had said she had done. Her slight frame was definitely not athletic and she seemed so passive that it was hard to believe that she possessed the gumption it must have taken to attempt and succeed in this escape. He had promised himself he would refrain from encouraging Sherlock's theories by not asking how he knew these things, but, yet again, he couldn't help himself in this case.

"Sherlock I have to ask how you know all that? You weren't there, unless Honor had told you?" Sherlock set his violin back in it's case with a roll of his eyes.

"No, Ms. Roswell always had dusty feet and the same substance on her boots when she came here. It was easily analyzed as residue from tile and drywall cuttings. She must have passed through a renovation area often. Seeing Lestrade in the same state suggested as much. I didn't have to see her room in person. I would imagine they would keep patients away from such an area and thus not need surveillance. Probably something Glass found very convenient. She also had metal shavings in her hair and sealant on the cuffs of her robe denoting the window breach. Bruises on her right shoulder and knee are consistent with a proper landing from a high jump, most likely two stories. Like I said there would be a number of ways to easily get over the fence and many the workers there seemed to be confident enough to leave their vehicles vulnerable in the parking lot."

They all turned to her and she half smiled self consciously. "I had a lab partner who used to watch parkour on his computer during experiments. It sounds a lot more exciting that it actually was." she offered.

"Well I think it's incredible." John shook his head.

"Not really for a person of her capabilities." Sherlock belittled.

For some reason something just snapped and John's patience popped like a soap bubble. Sherlock was his best friend. Why was often a mystery even Holmes himself probably couldn't figure out. But his constant narcissistic attitude and insults went unchecked too often.

John turned to smile at Honor.

"So, for a person with your capabilities, I have a little game to play."

Honor's eyebrows lifted in question.

"Where is Sherlock's cigarettes now. As we speak?"

The violin playing stopped and Sherlock looked over calmly.

The american girl looked unsure and John suddenly felt sorry he had put her on the spot.

"Well." She started. "They are no longer in the case. But he's moved them three separate places since. First the skull there on the mantle, then in a plastic bag in the toilet tank, now…" She got up and crossed to Sherlock, leaning over him she sniffed. "They, there are two boxes, are in Mrs. Hudson's laundry room on the top shelf behind the dryer sheets."

John got up and left the room.

Honor hadn't moved. Their noses were inches away and she murmured, "You should give them up. They'll kill you. Or worse, hinder your ability for cocky gloating."

Sherlock just sat calmly, his eyes flickered from hers to her mouth fleetingly.

An uncomfortable cough made Honor disengage and Molly and Mrs. Hudson were observing them with reservation.

John returned with two boxes of cigarettes.

Thankfully there were no further inquiries and after a long silence the conversation turned to other things. Sherlock picked up his sandwich and sniffed at it, then licked at one side. Begrudgingly he ate it in three bites and went to lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling dreamily.

Soon Molly stood up to leave and John insisted he see her home. She waved a farewell to the stationary Holmes who offered a solitary 'bye' in his absent state of mind and the two of them left.

Mrs. Hudson began cleaning up until Honor convinced her that she would be able to tend to it and so the landlady left the girl to the pile of dishes.

An hour later Sherlock sat up. "John?"

"He texted you saying they'd stopped off for a drink." Came the quiet reply from John's chair which was turned to face a modest fire in the fireplace.

Sherlock looked around for his phone on all of the usual surfaces.

"It's in your shirt pocket." Honor said without turning around.

Sure enough it was and Sherlock felt a ping of defensiveness. He was about to point out her nerviness when the sudden sympathetic relation came to him that perhaps this was how John and possibly many other people felt at his own behaviors. Instantly he threw off the distasteful feeling and walked over to his chair. At least she hadn't sat in that.

"So are you going to open an eatery up here in my flat? Serving breakfast, lunch and dinner?" He asked with no hint at humor.

Honor's reply was just as placid. "I doubt it since all the principle would go to taxis and have us bankrupt before the health department could shut us down for the state of the kitchen. However if we did get it off the ground I can imagine it would be called something like 'Holme's Cannibal Eatery, mysteries solved while you wait for your finger fries...chips'."

Despite himself, Sherlock chuckled. "Still, we'd be a leg up on Speedy's wouldn't we?"

They both started laughing together for the first time since they had met.

"Can you make tea?" He asked, staring into the flames.

"I've never tried. But I'm feeling a little sick right now."

"Wonderful time to give it a go. I take cream and no sugar." He replied and pulled out his phone.

Honor looked over at him for a moment then stood and went to the kitchen. Minutes later she came back with a cup of steaming tea, the bag still drowning in the light brown liquid. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, fished it out and flicked it into the fire. Taking a sip he closed his eyes and sat the cup down. With a twitch he looked directly at Honor who had settled back down into the chair with her legs tucked up under her.

"That is the worst cup of tea ever brewed I think." He decided.

"Mmm." Honor accepted, free of offence.

Sherlock found himself still studying her, wondering what she was thinking of. Something he had never, in all his career of curiosity, thought of another person unless they were a criminal or suspect. He had been unfair in his criticism of her. The chemical equations she had deciphered and progressed today were extraordinary. She was indeed a genius, and chose to harness it differently than he. Now as she sat in John's chair he remembered when Irene sat there.

"Mrs. Hudson said I could use the basement flat for the time being if I helped her fix it up a little. I know my being here has been really inconvenient." Honor said.

Sherlock looked down. "I appreciate you not mentioning last night to John."

"Not exactly what I was referring to but, I guess, yes that as well. Why would I? The comings and goings of your guests are hardly any of my concern." Honor knew he was talking about the woman caller.

Sleeping lightly had always been a consequence for her being in a strange place not to mention a little insomnia she seemed to have developed. She had heard the low voices easily. Sherlock's and the woman's. The words impossible to discern, the tones however, were unmistakable. Honor had turned over, putting her back to the living room when she heard the stiff steps emerging from Sherlock's room and coming into the kitchen. For a man who was a congenial wasteland he still seemed to have his share of admirers.

"She is an acquaintance of mine who is supposed to be avoiding attention at the moment. Not even John knows she is alive so I would ask you refrain from mentioning it." Sherlock requested.

The fleeting moment of friendliness was now strained for Honor who mustered what little patience she had left and said calmly, "You don't even have to ask. Unlike yourself, I don't feel the need to point out everything I perceive or conclude Mr. Holmes."

Her hypersensitivity was compounded by the beginnings of a headache and nausea which probably contributed to her souring mood and she rubbed her forehead.

Sherlock considered her words and he knotted his brow.

"Don't you think we're past formalities? Just call me Sherlock if you don't mind."

"I'm going to sleep. If I don't wake up in the morning I've probably had a grand mal seizure. As much as Ms. Molly has grown on me, please don't do an autopsy." She said, with a little more nippy sarcasm that she meant.

She went to grab her robe which she intended to simultaneously use as her pillow and blanket and heard a little clink from the pocket. Reaching in she retrieved the two keys and looked at them thoughtfully. Despite her best efforts, she felt gratitude and more irritatingly, and affinity towards this strange man.

She walked over to Sherlock who had directed his view back to the fireplace. She sat them on the table next to him and said, "Thank you. Sherlock."

"Take the Jack." He said randomly.

Honor blinked, "Beg your pardon?"

"The pillow? In fact if you plan to sleep on the floor, you should take the couch cushions as well. That damp, drafty basement can get below 4 degrees." He made no gentlemanly move to help but still Honor was surprised at his attempt at consideration.

She managed the load in one trip and soon was settling down in the musty front room of the basement. The air was chilled and she was more grateful than she wanted to admit to having the cushions. Mrs. Hudson had left a separate pillow and blanket on the floor for her so she wore the robe and made up her nest of a bed. The room was empty besides an old upright piano that sat half covered with a graying sheet. It must be the one Mrs. Hudson was talking about.

Dizziness had her lying down carefully with the blanket pulled up over her head. After a moment she switched the traditional pillow out for the union jack patterned one. She didn't analyze or judge her action but simply nuzzled her face into its impressed, dingy surface and dozed off.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Sorry this one's so long :D**

* * *

Sleep sifted away from Honor as she began to feel the shaking more and more vividly. Was she really having a seizure? There was pressure on her shoulders invoking the shifting, someone was doing it. Glass had found her? With a surge of adrenaline her eyes fought open and she beheld a looming Sherlock over her.

The grey light of morning behind him couldn't be more mature than 6am and she groaned and tried to roll away.

"What is it?" her sluggish voice broke. She was feeling a little better than last night but withdrawal seemed to be hanging on stubbornly this morning.

Satisfied that she was waking up he let her go.

"The football case. We've got a connection!" His reply was ecstatic.

Pushing herself up to sitting, Honor brushed her unruly hair away from her face.

"The sniper murders?" She tried to clarify.

He nodded pulling out his phone and looking over it with one of the widest smiles she had ever seen on his face.

"Indeed. All of the victims have been to consecutive games at Daresay FC. Now we know we have a serial killer. I haven't had one in months you know. The thing about serial killers is that they're either slightly smarter or luckier than your average one time murderer which takes away a bit the drudgery."

Honor closed her eyes and opened them again, thinking maybe she still was dreaming. There seemed to be no sympathy to be found in him for the victims or their families. She had always thought investigators were driven by the desire to get a criminal off the streets and to save further misery and heartache. This didn't seem to be the case with Holmes. He was acting like a child who had just found a lost piece of a puzzle and was eagerly trying to fit it in. When this puzzle was solved he would most likely wish for another one to come along.

He looked back down at her frowning face. "What? Well? Come on! Next match is tonight you know."

"Where's Dr. Watson? Why aren't you bothering him? He's your sidekick isn't he?" She said turning back to her bed and adjusting the pillow, intent upon utilizing it again shortly.

"Potted I'm afraid. Didn't quite make it to his bed and is curled up on the rug in the living room like a terrier. I did try to wake him up but all he did was smile oddly at me. He'll be useless until he's weathered his hangover. You know he has crippling hangovers." He glanced back down at her impatiently. "Well? Come on!"

Honor didn't move. "Come on what? How is this any of my business Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock. If you want to discuss my case then by all means but I hardly see how I can add to your dizzying crime solving dynamic."

The magic was gone from his eyes and he frowned. "Have you remembered anything else or thought of anything that will lead to what your little chemical concoction is or who is commissioning it?"

"Not directly. Just flashbacks here and there, I don't even know if they're real memories." She admitted.

Disappointment lined his face.

"You should. Given your gifts this is getting rather silly. I would have thought you'd solve your own case by now you know." He said shortly.

Angrily Honor stood to confront him properly. "You forget that I haven't been honing my mystery solving skills for as long as you have." She pointed out.

"On the contrary. Your scientific background is based on problem to solution logic. You readily solved that puzzle of a formula that would have taken me some time. Given your irrational shorthand and odd ways you draw benzine rings I'm hardly to blame..." He justified himself.

Honor didn't see the point in arguing with someone who would argue with a post and she just looked away.

Perceiving her lack of retort he changed his tone. "Look, if you just assist me with this case, I will give you my undivided attention in solving yours." He bargained.

Sighing, Honor knew she would not get any peace until he had what he wanted so she nodded.

"Where exactly are we going?" She consented with the question.

"Upstairs? I'd rather fancy some eggs. Can you do them without breaking the yoke?" He asked innocently.

Temper lost, Honor grabbed the pillow and flung it at him, directly hitting his shoulder forcefully.

He looked completely oblivious but only returned her glare for a second then left.

* * *

The image on the screen froze and Glass sat back, unwilling to blink. He had been staring at the security footage all morning in his office again. This time, out of desperation, he was searching the feed recorded from days before Honor's disappearance. He had finally found the break in the window and then combed the grounds but newly fallen snow had covered up any sort of footprints he had hoped to find. Of course, in an uncontrolled state of mind, Honor would be able to think clearly enough to leave nothing to point a direction in which she would have gone.

He knew Honor's sister had left for the states on Sunday, the day before she disappeared, but he still went and searched the house they had stayed in. No signs that anyone had been there since, which was what he had expected. Honor would not be so predictable or careless. He would not be surprised if she had vanished altogether as she had the ability.

Gareth's pessimism had begun to overwhelm him to the point that he couldn't even enter her room. But now, the stilled video in front of him possibly held the answer to his dilemma.

The camera outside the hospital pharmacy had caught a man talking to their chemist. Odd enough in and of itself, but it was the man's face that stopped Gareth cold. John Watson. From the club in town. The encounter had stuck out to him as more than a brush with your average London weirdo. Something about him whispered of a hidden motive from the exchange. Now it seemed more than coincidence and Gareth was certain it had everything to do with Honor's escape. There was another person, a man from the glimpses he got of him. But the man always seemed to be just out of the frame or his face turned away. Almost like he had known where the cameras were.

Deep infuriation burned in his stomach as he let Watson's face play in his memory. They had taken something of his. Something he had worked for, risked everything for, and had come to need. He needed her and she needed him. No one would change that.

' _Watson'_ , he thought to himself and he reached for the inter-facility phone. Dialing an extension he waited calmly.

"Yes Dr. Monroe. Would you please come to my office immediately?" There was a pause. "I'm afraid it is. Thank you."

Breathing deeply he put his head back shackling his emotions for control. Jim said to not do anything until he got back in contact, but Gareth felt time and opportunity slipping away and with it, Honor.

Minutes later a sharp knock came to the door and he called her in. Dr. Monroe came in warily.

Motioning to a chair Gareth said, "Sit please."

She complied, her eyes never leaving him.

"Saturday." He narrated. "Two men gain access to the secured section of the administration wing. I believe this is you here." He pointed at a frozen picture of Monroe facing Watson who's back was to the camera. The dark shoulder of his companion was visible in the corner.

Lifting her chest stoutly, Monroe nodded. "Yes. It was in the daily reports."

"I see. Yes here it said, 'LCPD law enforcement inquiry'." Gareth glanced at his computer. "Did you not think it was something to bring to my attention?"

Monroe shifted in her chair. "Well you have been rather preoccupied this week, I haven't really had a chance..." She stopped as he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Doctor, you let two unscheduled and therefore unauthorized personnel into a secure area without escort. This is serious indeed."

"We were very understaffed that day Dr. Glass! These men had been here before with clearance! Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson..."

He sat up straight. Holmes? Where had he heard that name? Jim? Yes, his own cousin spoke often of a Holmes with a bizarre affection. The name also had come up at NeoTech between him and that woman, Adler? When they had left, after Jim had hurt Honor.

Gareth's malevolent focus suddenly shifted from the woman in front of him.

"Yes thank you very much Monroe you may go." He interrupted her as she was still justifying her actions and he turned to his computer.

Stunned, Dr. Monroe stared at him, puzzled by his sudden disengagement. Finally she stood up, leery of his strange behavior but she left the room.

Glass had already forgotten her. His search didn't take long to find multiple results for Holmes and Watson. Many stories in the news about the duo and their noteworthy ability to solve the unsolvable. A site called 'The science of deduction.' which had very outlandish but incredible reasoning in perception and conclusion drawing. Another blog written by that shameless John Watson, documenting apparent criminal cases that had stumped the police.

They weren't even official detectives!

Dr. Glass did not come out of his office for lunch. He was seen leaving the facility without a word early that afternoon.

* * *

"Why would anyone single out soccer...football fans?" Honor sat across the table in the main room from Sherlock who stared at the papers scattered in front of them.

Barely glancing at her, he replied with surprising patience. "Attendees, they may not even fancy football. And people don't look for reasons anymore, that much contemplation is out of fashion nowadays."

Sighing, Honor leaned forward to gaze at the notes scattered on the table in front of her. "I don't know how you can find this intriguing. I couldn't do this as a career little alone a hobby."

He didn't answer and immediately she knew why. "But isn't a hobby is it? It's an obsession. Whether you like it or not."

A shadow of thoughtfulness passed over his face and quickly was replaced by his indifferent expression. "It is what it is. The horror of stagnant thought is more terrifying than any crime scene I have come across. Besides, I am putting my efforts towards some contribution to humanity so why should anyone care?"

"I just wonder about you. If it's really fulfilling. And why this? You could do so much in science..."

Sherlock picked up a sheet of notes.

"That would be like eating the same thing everyday. I need more than that. No danger or opposition? No high stakes? It's how I feel, alive." He told her. "Besides, in some small way, you are able to do what you do, help better the world, because I do what I do."

This had not occurred to her. His efforts in the unsavory line of criminal control did indeed provide a better environment for others to advance civilization, keeping their hands proverbially clean.

She could feel an odd headache coming on, but she got up and stretched. It was almost noon now, most of their time had been spent collecting information from the London PD and now they had it all in front of them. The answer was there. It all seemed simple enough but the only connections from one case to another that they could see was the football club and all were killed indirectly by some sort of sniper shot. Nothing else seemed to hint the identity of the offender.

An empty water glass lay on the floor where John had been. He had woken up and wobbled up to his room, the smile still clinging stubbornly to his face. Before he had gone, Sherlock had groaned at him for his lack of interest in the case and John's response had thrown both him and Honor off.

"Looks to me the perpetrator was British military trained." He commented as he drank from his glass that Honor had handed to him. Sherlock eyes narrowed as he turned back to his evidence. Of course. It was obvious in the guns selected, sites used and method of aim.

Sherlock cursed under his breath for missing such a vital detail. He never missed such obvious facts.

Mildly irritated he said, "Thank you for the information John. It would have, however been most appreciated if provided earlier."

The doctor had reached the door and shrugged. "I assumed you already had figured that out. Two super brains in one room after all." He grinned.

Sherlock watched him go. "Nothing is more frustrating than distraction. You cannot focus on the task at hand."

"What, because he is having fun spending time with Molly?" Honor's voice came from behind the screen of the computer as she searched the list of facility employees from the football club.

There was a pause and Sherlock looked up at her with a flash of revelation on his face. He hadn't even been thinking of Molly and John. He had blurted his opinion concerning himself, now realizing it was her. Honor was his distraction. Otherwise how had he missed something so obvious?

Blinking Honor realized his disconnect and added, "Really? You didn't notice?"

His pride answered quickly and cooly, "Molly and John are good friends and have a lot in common. Don't jump to disgusting conclusions."

She shrugged this off and pulled the computer closer to her as she scanned the website.

Sherlock found himself stealing glances at her as she stared intently at the laptop screen. Distraction. He could not allow himself to be distracted. It was a disease he had been almost completely immune to which set him apart from 'the rest'.

"Sherlock," Honor broke into his thoughts, "I don't see any employees or associations with the FC that were in the military who could have been present for all of these games."

"That wouldn't be a requirement anyway. Let me see." He reached for the computer. A few minutes of only the click of the keyboard sounding and Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration, "You're right. Nothing obvious anyway. It's right in front of us though, I can...something wrong?" He looked up to see her with her head in her hands, her breathing ragged.

His voice brought her head up quickly, "What? No. I just got a little dizzy. I'd die for a corn dog right now..."

Eyebrows knitted together in tight disapprovement, Sherlock said, " _Corn Dog_?! I don't know what it is you people in Idaho get up to…"

She wasn't listening. He studied her for a moment longer then looked back to his screen. "Well, the connection has to be here."

Standing up suddenly, Honor grabbed a black marker and some paper from the printer. She began to tear the sheets and cast them into a pile on the table in front of her. The etchy squeak of her quick strokes with the marker brought Sherlock's head up.

"What are you doing now?"

"Going back to the connection. The facts. I can't see anything until I write it out." Honor admitted as she finished her last stroke.

Glancing over her paper tiles, he noted she had rewritten the victim's names and ticket information. Suppressing a scoff he looked back to the computer.

' _At least she was trying_.' he thought.

Mumbling she moved the papers into a line.

"Dates, names, there has to be something else they all have in common." She hunched over the table. "What about the guy who claimed he did it?"

"No connection other than a fan. His involvement is something different all together I think." Sherlock dismissed.

He leaned back from the table frustrated and pushed his office chair over to the side of the table where Honor stood. They looked together.

"Your handwriting is atrocious even off medication." He commented as he pushed the papers about.

Honor looked at him with a frown. "Have you ever wanted to say something nice to anyone?"

The question was strange and redundant. Sherlock began to disregard it with a snappy quip but she stopped him. "Really. I'm asking purely out of scientific curiosity. Jon maybe or Mrs. Hudson?"

She continued to look at him with a shy, deep brown eye, her long fringe obscuring the other. Sherlock found himself unable to look away for escape.

"For what purpose?" His question was without bite for once but he still posed it with challenge.

"To appreciate them maybe? If for nothing else than to state the fact that you have some amazing people in your life. You have no problem pointing out everything else, but somehow the positive gets neglected with you."

Positive? She meant sentiment. To be stern or sometimes mildly antagonistic was safe, you knew if people really wanted to associate with you. Even with Irene he could criticize without her making a fuss. John would fight back sometimes. Molly had confronted him only once, at the Christmas party. And he couldn't control the alien feelings of embarrassment and even regret for his harsh words to her. The deductions came so quickly, devoid of any tact or sensitivity.

Now he suddenly thought of many things he admired about this awkward, quiet, beautiful, foreign girl. Some part of him wanted to reject the thoughts immediately but he abided them.

"Very well. John, is a very loyal and generous friend, gets himself into silly situations rather often however." Sherlock began, putting a hand in his own ruffled hair and scratching, "Mrs. Hudson is rather a dear woman when she's not being a bother."

"That's what I mean Sherlock." Honor said gently. "You always have to add something in, something belittling. I'm not a social expert or anything either. I hide behind my work to detour having to admit I do not understand the emotions I feel sometimes. They are nonsensical, irregular, they frighten me. But with them I feel connected, even just to my sister, and it helps curve the madness in my head. Whether or not we like it Sherlock, sentiment is a part of us."

Sherlock paused, still locked in on her eyes. "Honor, I think you are more than a case."

This comment brought a questioning tilt of Honor's head and she waited for him to go on. But the explanation never came.

Both of their faces fell and realization suddenly widened their eyes.

In unison they both blurted, "Stu F..."

They both looked back to the table at the line of papers with the seating ticket information of the Daresay matches.

The intimate conversation was now forgotten.

Sherlock stood up and pulled the computer over to them. S-1, T-9, U-7, F-2.

"Stu F 1972. It's a long shot..." Honor said as Sherlock began to type on the computer again.

In his usual drawl he nodded, "But it's the only one we have at the moment."

A moment later he lifted his fingers off the keyboard, his eyes sparkling. There it was. Stu Fox. Birthday 1972. Almost too obvious to be a coincidence. And that's what Sherlock Holmes did, gambled on a well fact-supported hunch.

Fox had been the team's previous coach over two years ago.

Sherlock grinned and began to chuckle. Honor, looked at him with a sickly yet quizzical look.

The usually bland detective clarified, "'A long shot.'"

The girl simply shook her head at the unintended, distasteful pun.

"It says here he was sacked and replaced by an assistant coach." Sherlock stopped then smiled. "Fox had been a sniper in the military during the gulf war. Cook said something about a fox at the asylum..."

"So you have motive and ability? Maybe he was bitter about being replaced and now going on a rampage?" Honor sat down faintly on the couch.

Groaning Sherlock fisted the table. "Ability yes...but not opportunity. The bugger died shortly after being terminated. How thoughtless."

Now it was Honor's turn to groan. She was feeling poorly already and now she was sure to catch the ricochet of Sherlock's frustration, again. Still, his comment about her 'being more than a case', echoed in her pressurized head. Now as she listened to his reading aloud the obituary she decided he meant a mental case perhaps.

' _Well like dissolves like...or it takes one to know one_. _Whatever_.' She insulted him silently.

"Survived by his ex-wife Becky...and a close friend…Cameron Taggart. Hmmm." His voice suddenly interested again. "Here we are, the man who replaced him C. Taggart."

"You think he is behind all this?" Honor asked.

Sherlock leaned back again in the chair, tipping slightly. "Perhaps, it is a connection none the less. Only one way to find out. We'll go and talk to him."

Standing up, Sherlock was texting on his phone already and within two minutes his phone dinged a message alert. "Apparently Mr. Taggart accompanied Fox in the Gulf War as well but was sent home, charged in a disciplinary council, for unintended manslaughter. This is developing nicely for once."

Honor didn't think she would ever get used to his shocking statements which were devoid of any empathy.

"Us? Why not tell the police? They have detectives of their own who are paid to do this right?"

"Do what?" John said entering the room in his favorite striped shirt.

' _Must be his day off.'_ Honor assessed him.

A fresh wave of pain in her head kept her quietly rubbing her temples.

The question was ignored and Sherlock kept his thumbs flying on his phone. "And have them muddle the whole thing? Besides, what fun would that be?"

The doctor looked from his friend to Honor. "Well I haven't heard that one before." He said with sarcasm of his own. "Honor, are you feeling alright?"

He crossed to her and took her wrist, feeling for the pulse.

"It's actually passing I think John." She assured him.

"I think we need to go do some tests, take you to the hospital, just to be sure."

"I think we have enough mother hens in this building as it is John. I'm watching her rest assured." Sherlock walked from the room back to his room.

"Well what about your burn?" He took a look at it. "No infection, I think it might fade almost completely in time. Oh, excuse me."

John turned and called to Sherlock. "I have the day off Sherlock and I'm ready to be completely serious about this case!"

"No need John!" The timely reply floated from Sherlock's quarters. Both John and Honor's heads swung in it's direction. "Honor and I can manage. So you can go to that matinee film after all. Don't go with the war one though, Molly fancies those silly superhero stories."

"What?" John was exasperated.

Honor sat on the couch again with her head still in her hands. "I told Mrs. Hudson I'd fix her piano!"

Reappearing with determination in his step, Sherlock shook his head.

"Forget the piano. I need a college age, female journalist with an attractive, I mean distracting face and a decent memory. John's out on all accounts."

"Excuse me?" The blatant insults still caught even John off guard sometimes.

"I will however need you to be able to answer your phone though so take her to some nice restaurant for Italian first, she hates french. When I call I need you to use your most professional Latin-American accent and assure whomever I put on the line that we are supposed to be there."

Now it was pure bewilderment. John shook his head to try to focus. "Wait, accent? Who am I supposed to be?"

"Hector Delgado, Idaho Falls University Journalism Professor. Just go with it John." Sherlock was at the computer then the printer hummed mechanically.

"Speak with a Spanish accent...in an Italian restaurant. How do you even know he has an accent?" John folded his arms aggravatedly.

Sherlock flung _his_ arms out. "I don't! Just sell it!"

Lips pressed, Watson stood there only a moment longer then almost stomped from the room.

"Come on then. Let's go have a chat with Mr. Taggart." Sherlock swung his coat on and walked over to the microscope that sat on an open shelf in the kitchen. He tipped it and loosened the base. Feeling around inside his eyebrows bunched then he pulled out a colorful toy pipe.

"The bubbles are there above the sink." Came Honor's voice from the front room.

"Really. A bit cheeky for an american isn't it?" He retorted drably and tossed the pipe onto the table.

Fingering futilely through the tangles in her hair she peeked into the kitchen. "I had John get it last night while he was out. He'd asked me where your smokes were and so I felt like I owed you something for copping out."

It took every ounce of willpower for Holmes to keep the smile safely hidden behind his signature scowl. He pulled a sheet from the printer and folded it, slipping it into his coat.

"Are you going like that?" He tisked at her worn t-shirt and boxers. "Any self respecting journalist would at least put on a blazer."

"I'm sorry what? That doesn't make any sense. 'Self-respecting journalist'? Now who's being ridiculous?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Cheek." He muttered moving to the door. "Well? Come on?"

Raising an eyebrow Honor looked out the window. The sun was out but it would still be near freezing. "Mrs. Hudson's gone so I can't...won't borrow any of her clothes so don't bother breaking into her apartment."

"More entering than breaking really…" He started but then sighed. "Fine, let's go get something. It's about time you quit knicking other people's clothes anyway."

Honor didn't know what that meant but Sherlock grabbed one of John's jumpers from a hook by the door and tossed it to her. It was the one Sherlock had put the fire out with in the kitchen. Honor only hesitated for a moment taking in the burn marks in it. Then she slipped into her boots and followed him down the stairs.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

They received more than a few odd glances as they entered the clothing store. Honor in a singed jumper, boxers and black boots didn't help Holmes' 'tower of darkness' impression, as John called it.

Sherlock strode straight over to a mannequin in the window. It had a simple jacket over a camisole and skinny jeans. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm and made for the counter. The surprised clerk blinked at him as he tried to put it on the counter.

"Well? How much?" He said, annoyed when it kept slipping.

The girl looked flustered. "I'm sorry, the dummy or the clothes?"

"The clothes! You're the dummy…"

"Sherlock!" Honor snapped at him.

He wrinkled his nose. "The clothing then." He paused and leaned over the counter, looking intrusively at the girl's feet. "And we'll take your shoes as well. They're the right size, cheap and unpractical."

"Um, I'm sorry those aren't for sale." The girl stammered as she began trying to confiscate the outfit.

Sherlock looked around confused. "I thought this was a store?"

A pair of plain, black ankle boots were shoved into his hands. Honor frowned at him and he scoffed, keeping his silence as the girl rang them up.

"These will do. No need to bag them." He handed the pile to Honor. "She'll wear them."

* * *

Teetering on the new shoes slightly as she got out of the car, Honor looked at the modest stadium in front of her. Her limited knowledge of soccer told her that the team must not be very highly ranked from the size and state of the building. By the big block letters of 'Daresay' was a large circular crest surrounding a bird. It's wings were spread upward over its head.

Sherlock was already walking towards an official looking entryway, fiddling with something in his hands.

He had called on his phone in the cab with a halfhearted american accent, having a convincing conversation with whomever that they were students scheduled to interview to the coach and tour the facilities. A sort of argument ensued as to lost emails, how this was the purpose of their trip to England and that it was their final project for their graduation requirements. Sherlock of course added in some very convincing details about the club administration head that had given them the permission and who was conveniently away on holiday and unable to verify; also that they were to intern at a very prestigious international sports news organization after graduation and that they would remember the club's generosity. After Sherlock had added John, aka 'Mr. Delgado' to the conversation, the con seemed to have worked.

Now pausing, Sherlock turned back to look at her. "Keep up Honor! Quick's the word, sharp's the motion!"

Trying to walk confidently she scurried over to him, she pulled her still tangled hair back into a ponytail. Sherlock put a name tag attached to a woven black neck loop over her head. "Chloe Coleman, Senior Journalism Student, Idaho Falls University" it read with a slightly blurry picture of her looking away from the camera and half smiling.

"When did you take that?!" She demanded.

Sherlock sighed as he strung his own around his neck. "Don't get fussy. I took it of me, you just happened to be in the background, conveniently."

His read, "Leroy Larsen, Senior Journalism Student, Idaho Falls University". His face stared back with a over forced and disturbing smile.

"You took a selfie?" It was almost funny to her and he rolled his eyes, taking her wrist and dragging her behind him. The entry was gated by a thatched metal barricade and ticketing shoots.

They hadn't waited long when an annoyed looking woman in slacks and an over sized sweater came to the gate and unlocked it with a key, pulling back the barricade enough for them to step in. She explained that she only ran the raffle and club sponsor's activities and didn't think she'd have the time to give them a tour but would take them down to the field where the team was now warming up for tonight's game.

"We shoore 'preciate ya'll lett'n us come." Sherlock grated with his mock accent. He shook the woman's hand enthusiastically. "I've never been nowheres like this! Mighty differn't than the farm back home!"

Honor just smiled and nodded her 'Thank you'. The woman produced an amused smile and beckoned them to follow her.

"Couldn't fit the tractor on these bitty roads 'round here I'll tell you what." Sherlock proverbially beat the dead cat.

They passed through the corridors of the building and came out onto the open air field. The multi-color practice balls rolled and rested in the dormant, patchy grass. The Daresay players ran their drills and sets in various groups as Sherlock and the two women approached a few men in club colored jackets.

Their guide stopped short and said, "Wait here please."

Then she continued on.

As they watched her go over to the coaches Honor looked at Sherlock.

"Pouring it on a little thick back there weren't you?" She asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well the red-neck accent, derogatory comments about tractors."

With a slightly intrigued lift of his eyebrow he responded with his own inquiry, "Oh, are you sensitive about tractors?"

"No, but I'm from the american Midwest and I can't seem to remember using the words 'ya'll', which is more a southern term by the way, or 'bitty'. You just seem to imply that…"

Sherlock cut her off and began to scan the field and stadium.

"...There have been multiple studies showing the dip in IQ in that region of the States. There is of course a plus or minus margin of error for random, blonde genius' with dirty feet I suppose."

"Do you always make up facts to support your bias'? I'd like to see those studies."

"They aren't bias', they're educated generalities. And not if it has to go to court. Besides, in this case I'm pandering to a preconception that will interest them enough to be more liberal in answering our questions. It's a distraction."

Honor raised her own eyebrow.

"I think you just like to 'take the mick'. What if it doesn't work and they're just annoyed by you?" She folded her arms as she spoke.

"Then I have brought you as back up. Lovely girl, keen to get a good story about men in shorts and knee socks. It's fool-proof…" He let off as the woman returned.

"Mr. Taggart can speak with you now. You have 10 minutes and I'll be back for you." She said then went back the way they had come.

They walked up to a tall man bundled in a coat and track pants. His silvering dark hair was slightly visible under the beanie he wore. He had a hawkish nose that was red in the cold air. He didn't look at them as they approached, he kept his eyes on the players on the field.

"Howdy…" Sherlock began eagerly but was spoken over by the stone-faced man.

"I don't have much time so if you'd just get on with it please." He said agitatedly.

Sherlock had extended his hand only to have it left to air.

"Oh shoore, 'course. My name's Leroy Larsen, senior at Idaho Falls Journalism college and this here's my co-leege Chloe Coleman."

Taggart glanced at them with a careless nod and a muttered greeting.

"Shewt, I can't tell ya what a treat this is to meet you!" Sherlock's voice seem to carry in the empty stands. "We're all a bunch of soccer fanatics back home in Idaho. Chloe and I saved for months just to come here to our 'sister' team for our final project interviews! Ain't that right Chloe? You gett'n all this Chloe?"

Honor was looking around the stadium, disconnected from the conversation. Sherlock elbowed her lightly.

"Um yes I am. In fact we have a corner of the local gas station dedicated to Daresay FC." She chirped halfheartedly offering her own hand. With a bit of hesitation he took hers and was nodding with a bewildered look on his face.

"Sister team?" Taggart asked, his disgruntled attitude given way to the odd situation before him.

"You betcha! The Idaho Falls! Or was it Divers? Now tell me, we know ya'll have had a tough few seasons with the change in coach'n, what was that feller's name?"

"Stu Fox?"

"Right. Things are look'n heaps better now that you're in the saddle." Sherlock continued, eyeing him carefully.

Taggart's face clouded over briefly. "Fox was a good man and a bloody good football coach. He got this team to where it is today."

"Did you know Mr. Fox personally sir?" Honor spoke up.

The man nodded thoughtfully. "Met him back in the Gulf War. Had a football team of our own. We used to stick it to the Yanks and Greeks every time! Oh, excuse the…"

"No problem Mr. T., that's interesting how you got the job out from under him though if you was such good buddies." Sherlock's brazen dialogue continued.

A few of the players in the field had stopped and were looking in their direction.

Their coach frowned at Sherlock's words. "There was no reason to fire him, and I wouldn't have taken the job if it had meant he would have kept his position. Those gits up in the box, new management, they're the ones who made the call. Stu asked me to accept the job. To keep the team going how we had planned it. And I have. All I did differently was trade out a few players to get our new striker. Lofthouse over there."

"Oh yes, I heard 'bout him. One doozie of a kicker 'eh?" Sherlock remembered the name from Cook.

"That's right. He's been courted by premiere league clubs but said he'd only play at Daresay. We might have a shot this year." Taggart beamed. "Here he is now."

The young man who came across the pitch from the gawking group was in a black and red striped training jersey and white shorts. He was tall and fit, almost Sherlock's height, his sandy blonde hair was styled in a popular fohawk and he flashed a handsome, sparkling smile as he jogged up to them. Taggart handed him a towel and motioned to Sherlock and Honor.

"Reporters from the States Paul. Doing a bit on us." He introduced them.

Lofthouse didn't even bother to look at Sherlock, he kept his attentions on Honor.

"I know you! I've seen you before." Lofthouse looked her over confidently.

Honor was taken back and looked to Sherlock who was also stark faced and returned her questioning look.

Shifting his weight to one leg, the striker grinned. "Yeah, at that EuroTech party downtown last Monday. Galla or whatever. I definitely remember you.

That dress, how could I forget? Definitely you. I wanted to come talk to you but you and those people you were with disappeared to some sort of back room party. That bloke with the beard looked a little possessive. Is he your boyfriend?"

At a loss, Honor blinked for a second then she smiled back.

"Oh yes, I mean no. He's not my boyfriend. Just a...an adviser with the internship program here." She lied.

"I love american accents." Lofthouse seemed very pleased.

"Fantastic!" Sherlock interjected. "We were just talking about yer old coach here…"

"Never met him." Lofthouse said dismissively picking up a nearby ball and bouncing it from one knee to the other. "So what is your name?" He kept on at Honor.

A trademark Sherlock groan sounded but he quickly recovered.

"Chloe, why don't you go interview Mr. Lofthouse. Make sure you note how many concussions he's had and get more about that party! I'll finish with Mr. Taggart."

Honor's eyes went wide with dread but Sherlock shooed her after a very keen Paul Lofthouse.

"Anyhew," Sherlock watched Honor walked down the sideline with the player. "You were say'n about Fox?"

"Well what more is there to say? I think the owners have his blood on their hands. This was his life and they took it from him for no reason. They'd just gotten a new sponsor who could finance players like Paul Lofthouse. NeoTech. But I'm sure this isn't the story you're looking for. Here let me tell you about the team…"

Half listening, Sherlock would glance over at Honor who now was sitting on a bench with Lofthouse next to her. She smiled at whatever he said, then laughed demurely. Sherlock's nose itched and he looked back to Taggart.

A few minutes later Honor felt a tap on her shoulder and Sherlock jerked his head towards the exit and kept walking. Abruptly she stood and awkwardly waved at Paul who was in the middle of some story.

"Wait…" He got up and followed after her. "Can I ring you? I could take you out and show you around London? You can't be having fun with this guy!"

Sherlock spun around walking backward to make sure Honor was coming and to give the striker a digging glare.

"Sorry! I've gotta go. Thanks for the interview! I hope you win tonight." She tried to keep up her facade.

"If you come to the game, I'll leave you a ticket and a pass at the desk Chloe Coleman!" He called after her at the edge of the field.

For every one of Sherlock's long-gated strides down the maze of corridors, Honor had to take two. The woman who had brought them down turned a corner into them but Sherlock kept going. She had been carrying some papers and other items which were knocked out of her hands.

"Wait! Turns out I can give you that tour after all." She said, Honor bent to help her collect her things.

"We just got a deadline lady. Thanks anyway! We'll send you a copy of the Idaho Daily Bugle Times Plow and Hoe." He threw back at her, the accent almost abandoned completely.

Honor shrugged and smiled, hurrying she got back up and struggled to catch up.

Out in front of the stadium Sherlock looked to hail a cab. As Honor caught up with him, pulling her light jacket tighter around her for warmth, he finally said, "So did you give him your number?"

She winced at him, shivering. "I don't have a phone."

"Oh, quite right." He stepped back as a black cab pulled up. "He's got athlete's foot..."

"I know."

They got inside and after some silent time he glanced over at her again.

"What is it with you and, men? I mean that sorry bloke back at the nuthouse and now this nitwit."

"I wonder the same about you actually." She gave a little smile that quickly faded and she shivered again. "Then they get to know you and that's that, well with me anyway."

Sherlock didn't reply right away, but he pulled off his scarf and looped it around her neck then turned back to look out the window again.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was just sliding a cuppa under Holmes' nose as he sat at the front room table with his notes when John finally returned. Mrs. Hudson greeted him in passing and left them alone in the flat.

It was half past seven and John hung up his coat and then came into the room flipping on the television.

Sherlock surprisingly took notice and scowled at him.

"What's that look for then?" John decided to ask against his better judgement.

"Did you go latin dancing?" The words almost made the detective gag.

John lifted his chin in defiance, "Yes, yes I did. Why? Do I still have a rose in my teeth?"

"You're still flushed, the new scuffs on your shoes about the toes and wrinkles on the right arm sleeve of your shirt where, I'm assuming Molly had grasped as she trod on your feet. Not to mention…"

"Ok, you can stop now. Let's change the subject. How was your day. Did you catch the 'real' murderer then? Where is Honor?" John jabbed at the remote, flipping through the channels of the television.

Diverted, Sherlock turned back to his spread of information on the table top.

"She's downstairs tinkering with that 280 kilogram paperweight and yes I think I might have found the murderer actually."* Sherlock informed his friend.

"Smashing. Did you tell Lestrade?" John already knew the answer.

"No…"

"Call him right now."

"No."

John sighed, "Sherlock. I think it's safe to say this person is a serious danger to society. Please inform the police so that football fans everywhere can rest easy."

"That's just it John, if it is indeed Mr. Taggart the coach, he has a grudge against the management of the club, not the fans. He's kept it looking like random murders with the same MO. Unlike most killers, he doesn't seem to be looking for attention. So he's going to be very paranoid in my opinion. Besides, I can't prove it yet but I think I know how I can catch him."

"Well I think it would be wise to tell them about everything you have there in front of you that's pointed you in this direction…" John advised and walked over to the table.

Had he been spending a lot of time with Molly? Yes. Their schedules had seemed to match up almost perfectly. His NHS call center was only a 5 minute ride on the tube from Barts and he found himself going there and enjoying the vile cantina food with her quite often. Their common medical background made for innumerable conversations and even jokes that they could enjoy together. It was so easy to be with her and she made him forget much of his anxieties.

Still, he felt the pull of solving mysteries with Sherlock. Molly was going to be very busy this weekend and he felt a little out of the loop on this, what was supposed to be a, pre-solved case.

John began to look over the raw 'data', as Sherlock called it.

"So this isn't the football murders." Concluded John, looking at the spread out notes about Westerham, the diagrams that Honor had written in her drug induced delirium and printed pictures of the asylum, Honor's burn on her shoulder and now a large page of notes ending with a capitalized question: HONOUR AT NEOTECH?

On the computer screen was an email attachment that read: Professor at esteemed Boston university commits suicide after destroying life's work.

After an apparent explosion in his lab, Prof. Ronald Finch of Harvard shot himself in front of his graduate aid in April of last year. Information concerning the details of his research and the student have not been released to the public while police continue to investigate.

"Do you think that has to do with Honor? No wait, you think it was her?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was staring straight forward in one of his zoned out moments.

"Sherlock."

"Hmmm? What?"

"Do you think Honor is the student?" John asked patiently.

Standing up, Sherlock shrugged lamely. "Perhaps John, I don't know…"

This stopped John cold. Those words didn't often grace Sherlock's lips. At least not genuinely; not without some snide follow up.

Sherlock had gone into the kitchen and was moving around sluggishly. Following him, John leaned against the table that, for once, had nothing brewing, dissected or foaming over onto the floor. His friend had an object in his hands, looking at it closely, turning it, contemplating it.

"I told her you wouldn't think it was funny." Watson gave a half smile at the bubble pipe.

"It's brilliant."

"Are you ok Sherlock? Are you feeling alright?" John was getting nervous. It seemed strange to think that Sherlock was acting strange as Sherlock always acted strange. But this aimless attitude was odd indeed. The next line out of his friend's mouth might as well been an earthquake as it shook him to the core.

"John, I don't want to solve this case."

Before John could get his mental footing back, what would follow came as aftershocks.

"Is Honor up here?"

It was Mrs. Hudson. The little woman glanced around the room.

"Of course she's not. What are you on about?" Sherlock sherlocked.

"She not here then? I left her only for a bit to make the tea, you know how awful her tea is…"

"Mrs. Hudson…" Sherlock verbally herded her.

"Yes well, I went back down to her room and she wasn't there. I thought she might have come up."

Within three strides of his long legs, Sherlock was at the window.

"It's gone." He said looking up and down the street.

"What's gone?" John came over and tried to see what his friend was not seeing.

Pointing, Sherlock said, "There has been a grey, two door hatchback plate AG63 THP parked across the street and three doors down ever since we returned from Daresay. It followed us home from there and whoever was inside never left the car. Now it's gone."

"Oh do you think they're after that dear girl?" Gasped Mrs. Hudson.

Putting up his hands, John attempted to calm the pair.

"Wait a second! For all we know she's here somewhere, Mrs. Hudson, you might have missed her or maybe she's gone somewhere on her own?" He reasoned.

A concerned Sherlock latched onto this idea, pointing at John as he moved across the room to grab his coat.

"You may be right John. Come on." He grabbed his scarf, looking at it for a second then putting it under his nose and smelling it. Abruptly he hooked it around his neck and launched himself down the stairs.

John quickly collected his coat and also hurried down the stairs followed by Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock sprang from Mrs. Hudson's apartment then ran down the stairs to the C flat. The two tried following him when he came back out of the basement almost running into them.

"She took Mrs. Hudson's coat and my phone. Call it John."

"My coat? My puffy coat with the fur hood?" Mrs. Hudson said wide eyed.

Meanwhile John had pulled his phone out and was calling. After, a few seconds of the muted sound of unanswered ringing, John shook his head and hung up. Sherlock pushed passed him, now walking up the stairs deep in thought.

"So she wasn't...taken?" Stated Watson in tow, tailed by their landlady.

Pacing, Sherlock shook his head. "No, no of course not."

"Should I keep trying to call?"

"No don't bother, she can't hear the ring." Sherlock began to put on his gloves and went to the door.

John raised an eyebrow, "You know where she's gone?"

Sherlock nodded. "She's gone to that match."


	16. Chapter 16

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Sorry for the wait on the update. Life is so demanding sometimes! This was a tough chapter for me and I still wish I could have spent more time on it! But I hope it's not too bad. At least a C average...**

* * *

His thoughts were broken. Like a fragmented hard drive, his usually relentlessly smooth contemplation was slow and sporadic.

Why had Honor left, gone back to Daresay? Of course he would assume to see who the next potential victim was? He had planned on doing so himself or sending one of his homeless constituents. But why alone without saying anything?

He had an idea of who he thought was in that car and as capable as Honor was he was very unnerved at the prospect of her being found. If it was Glass, would he just take her back to the hospital? Logic would not comply with it. Not knowing who the players were behind this ever twisting mystery marred any theories he could come up with. No, his intuition calmly, solidly concluded that if she returned to them now, it would be permanent.

Questions. Too many piling up.

Lofthouse, did she go back to see him? Not that it should matter but Sherlock felt a flush of irritation at the debatable good looking athlete with an annoying ambition towards Honor. No, she wouldn't be attracted to his kind, would she? Barely graduated from grammar school, skipped a doomed-to-drop-out university career to run about chasing a leather patched ball and hold hands with snotty nosed children. It was hardly any of Sherlock's concern.

Pressing his eyes shut he tried to reconstruct his thought process, reboot.

Taggart's Daresay beanie cap came to the forefront of his mind but it was Chastity's knitted hat that he remembered. It was not blank but had a run-of-the-mill university logo on it. The Boston based school had connected to a brief memory he had recovered, finally, from the police station. He had flipped through the passport of the dead journalist yesterday. Logan International Airport Boston Massachusetts, April of last year. So on a solid hunch he had looked up the dead man's articles and lo, there it was. The journalist, Kapoor was his name, had been at the school for a political visit of some Washington legislator when the explosion and suicide had happened. The man then did some investigational work it seemed and was sent back to the UK early.

Chastity's cap. Same school and after a little research Sherlock found neither she nor her husband had gone there. Perhaps it was where Honor had been going? Connection. It begged the question why her name was not on the school's records. It would have happened about the same time she had been induced with Glass's drug. Was Kapoor murdered for something he had found? If Honor had anything to do with the death in Boston and then Kapoor killed in Daresay Stadium, what was the purpose if not an unlucky ticket holder of the doomed seat? And why would Cook take the blame?

What if she was attracted to Lofthouse? He frowned at the stray thought. Misfiled, dispensable.

"Sherlock? We're here." John pushed into the crowded room of his mind where thoughts churned and Sherlock came back to now.

"What? Oh yes. Pay the cabbie would you?" Sherlock got out of the taxi.

Sighing John dug into his wallet, "Of course, why not? My turn is it? Funny it's been my turn for the past 2 years..."

Holmes' breath hung in the freezing air when John finally stepped up next to him on the pavement.

"You're buying the tickets I'll tell you that right now." He stated firmly.

In his usual dismissively spoken rhapsody Sherlock said, "I can't buy tickets when the game has been sold out."

"Sold out? Daresay?! Now there's a mystery. How are we getting in then? I'm not dressing up and pretending to hand out ice creams." John said.

Turning to peer down at his friend with a blank look, Sherlock frowned, "Why in the world would you do that? It would never work and besides you should be watching your weight…"

About to argue both points John was left to himself as Sherlock made a quick turn to move away and ran into a shady looking fellow who verbally assaulted him but was only met with a passive 'Terribly sorry' from the detective.

Then John was motioned to follow his friend towards the gates. A ticket magically appeared in front of his nose and John blinked at it.

"Where'd…."

"Pick pocketed the scalper. Please John I can't narrate every single step. Just accept what is and keep up." Sherlock handed his ticket to a collector and they eased into the stadium once more.

Indeed the match was well attended and Sherlock weaved through the crowd as he headed to a specific terminal.

The roar of the crowd penetrated through them as they went through out to the stands. Sherlock immediately started to descend the long staircase quickly heading to the seats near the side of the pitch.

Section 'O', seat number 1 was occupied by a woman. Successful architect with chronic pancreatitis, three small children and a broken elevator in her building.

The assessment took perhaps four seconds and his eyes moved on. Looking around for Honor. She had just under 27 minutes head start, she might be looking around at other possible seat combinations should this one not be the one the killer had in mind.

He was about to turn about to follow the same thinking when John touched his arm and leaned in to speak to him.

"She's there!" He was pointing out to the pitch.

Sherlock didn't believe it. Why would she…?

But he looked anyway and near where the media members stood close by the home bench stood a peaked looking Honor. A grinning Paul Lofthouse was removing his warm up gear and shaking out his arms, saying something to her.

Sherlock scrambled for a reason, any possible ulterior motiveless reason she would be out there with him. There had to be an objective besides...

"She know him?" John shouted.

"Barely." his involuntary system often spoke for him and he was unaware he had done so.

Being summoned to sub onto the field, Lofthouse lingered for only a second longer, handing something to Honor then heading over to await his change out. She swayed a little, taking a step as if losing her balance briefly but had her head down and was looking at whatever she was holding now.

Against the mounting evidence Sherlock still decided not to give heed to any emotions that now bombarded him. She was too smart. Might as well fancy a filter feeder.

The substitution was made and suddenly Honor was gone. Immediately Sherlock's eyes darted here and there, calculating the most likely direction of exit.

He smiled.

Whirling he faced John who still stood by him, patiently waiting on his friend's method which sometimes required him to do so.

"Hit me John." Sherlock told him, his eyes locked onto a locker room entrance tunnel.

Squinting John turned his ear so as to hear better, "What?"

"Hurry! We don't have time for this!"

"Every time you say 'hit me' I either end up in a brawl or confronted by a naked woman." John resisted, listening to his own words the second consequence wasn't all that bad.

"Hit me!"

The swing came and Sherlock was genuinely caught off guard. Usually John was a slow starter and this punch had much more gusto than Sherlock was used to.

Over he went backwards, tumbling down the stairs until he rolled to a stop at the barrier separating the field from the stands. Two security guards who were standing nearby jumped into action, running up to where John stood wide eyed, just realizing what was about to happen. The surrounding crowd had also stood up providing much needed cover. Someone tried to help Sherlock up but he was already in motion and hopped the barrier and was now moving swiftly towards where he was sure Honor had gone.

On his way he bent to pick up a security pass that had been laid on a jacket over a chair. Careless but helpful. Quickly quickly. The faster he moved the less likely he would be seen and he entered the cavernous hall.

Doors doors, which door? Where was she going?

The concrete walls went by until he reached an intersection, the same as when he and Honor had been leaving earlier that day. The collision with the woman. Honor had paused to help her, then she had held something in hand that she had picked up. He scored his mind, the replay unfocused. It was cylindrical, fit in a hand. An inhaler. More importantly Honor had hesitated at it.

Not Lofthouse, she was not here for him he concluded musingly. There was only one other: Taggart.

He walked the halls, not knowing the layout but that never stopped him from getting to where he wanted to go. People were animals of habit and pattern. They left clues and were predictable. With simple observance one could think their way through anything, be it finding a specific room in a building or solving a crime.

He had few encounters until he got to a dark corridor. Strange the florescent lights were off here and he turned to look for any switch but none could be found. It was out of the pattern and so suspicious. It was blood in the water and he plunged into the darkness.

Faintly glowing emergency signs shown brighter as his eyes adjusted and finally he noticed a prominent glass door embedded into a wall of glass windows. Barely he made out the identification plate: Coaching office. Putting his hand to the knob he eased it soundlessly, unlocked.

It was much darker in what he would assume to be a reception area and he felt out with his hands.

He could only assume this is where she'd come, to find Taggart's office. Why? The thought of someone getting a notion before him was irritating.

Then he heard the voice. Hers. It came from in front of him and he moved forward carefully, inch by inch. A wall, no a door and it was slightly open.

There was dim light in the room. A moving, hued light from a screen. Barely discernible, it was a larger room with shelving outlined, tables. Perhaps a meeting room.

He moved quietly into the space, resisting the urge to call out to Honor. Something was not right.

Then someone walked in front of the screen that he could now see was a live feed of the game. It was Honor's black outline. Before he could speak she said, "It's not him. It couldn't have been."

Her voice was dreamy and hollow. Then a whisper, low and harsh. Sherlock couldn't make it out. Someone else was here.

She still stood silhouetted in front of the lit screen when another person stepped up to her.

Instantly Sherlock halted, straining to see who it was. A man, he had a hooded jacket on, pulled forward over his face.

"You're not well, you shouldn't have left. Come with me." the familiar voice of Glass was louder now.

He put a hand to her face and Sherlock caught his breath.

Honor...had she been pretending all along? Was she part of this whole thing? In league with Glass and whomever else?

Glass leaned into her, their mouths meeting.

The world was upside down now. How could Sherlock have assumed her to be a victim and not take into account any other scenario?

"Sherlock?" She asked softly.

Glass froze at the name that had fallen from her lips.

Glass swore and stepped back, looking as though he were rummaging through his pockets. "I've got your medicine. Here…"

"Glass." Sherlock heard himself say and Glass' form gave a start then lunged out of the light of the screen.

A wavering Honor remained, stumbling into a table.

Sherlock took a step back. Glass had gone into the shadows to his right and there was only one exit.

Suddenly a hand hooked around from behind him and fingers roughly dug at Sherlock's right eye. Grabbing the wrist, Sherlock twisted Glass' hand away and spun to face him. Both men threw their fists at each other. A burning begun to tear up Sherlock's eye as they struggled. He struck a sharp jab to Glass' ribs and the man groaned and fell backward. Blinking, Sherlock tried to see where he'd gone but he only heard the sound of a door banging open and retreating footsteps.

The man had had something on his fingers and it was causing a severe reaction.

Turning back around Sherlock looked to see Honor who was supporting herself against the table, mumbling to herself.

Apprehensively he started over to her. Mistrust building high walls around him.

"Honor? What are you doing here?" He asked cooly, the heel of his hand pressed at his still complaining eye.

She breathed as if she had been exerting herself, "I...I don't know. The floor is tipping Sherlock. I'm going to fall!"

It could be she was just having a severe episode that was causing hallucinations and psychosis. She had been suffering all day from physical symptoms. Still, the possibility of deceit was now a circumstance he would not ignore.

"Don't be ridiculous. Think your way through this Honor. You know what is logical and possible. Disregard the emotion, it's lying to you." He could see the perspiration glistening on her forehead as she grasped the table.

There was something in her hand, a paper. As her breathing started to steady he slid a hand into the pockets of her open coat finding nothing. Then he reached into the jacket pockets she wore underneath. Startled she put a hand up as if to push him away.

"It's alright, I'm only looking for my phone. Do I look like a brain-dead footballer keen for a feel up?" he scoffed.

He retracted his hand which had found two phones and he considered the spare.

"It's Paul's. I've got to get back to give it to him. Halftime is in two minutes." She moaned and put her fists to her forehead.

Sherlock took the paper from her grip and looked at it by the light of his phone screen. "They should add kleptomaniac to your diagnosis…"

He murmured as he looked over what was a prescription for Cameron Taggart. Formoterol budesonate.

"Sherlock I don't feel well." Honor said through her teeth.

"Let's go." He took her by the elbow and led the way out. Cautiously he was alert, listening and looking for Glass.

They made it back to the pitch just as the players were coming off the field and Sherlock stood back out of sight. Honor pulled herself together beautifully and passed the phone back to the player. He spoke to her for a little then with a frown followed the rest of the Daresay team back into the locker room.

Leading the way, Sherlock took them through the maze of corridors until they were outside once more. Most of the time his eyes were on his phone, "An inhaler for asthma."

Honor was leaning against a brick wall. "Yes. When Taggart took my hand it had a tremor. My professor...I had a professor with the same thing. Involuntary tremors as a side effect of this drug. Sherlock, " she swallowed, "I don't think he could have been the shooter. Not with that condition."

Brilliantly infuriating!

"You know Honor, you're supposed to be helping with this case, not shooting down...pardon the pun...every theory I have." He scolded her.

There was no fight in her, "I'm sorry."

Shoving his hands into his pockets he sighed, "I'll take you home, then I've got to go pick up John."

Honor braved a glance at him, "Oh? Is he at Molly's or something?"

Sherlock shook his head, his lanky hair shifting with the movement, "No. But probably about as dull. He's in jail."


	17. Chapter 17

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Thanks for the reviews they really motivate me. I may be posting every three days or so now. Got a lot of things going on but they'll still come. I didn't want this to be a long story so don't worry we're getting to the end. TY for reading!**

* * *

John was livid. It was easy to tell by the shade of his face and the rigidity of his eyes that refused to look anywhere but straight forward. And he would tense his sternohyoideus muscles like a nervous tick.

He hadn't spoken a word since Sherlock showed up at the police station and even then all he said was 'never again'. Of course this was a commonplace phrase for John to say so Sherlock simply ignored it.

He had left Honor at home where she had slumped down onto the couch and was asleep immediately. So when he received the call from Mrs. Hudson he almost ignored that as well, as he always did.

"She's up Sherlock, but I don't know that she's awake. Come back quickly!" came the woman's shaky voice.

When they left the taxi at the curb of 221b Baker Street Molly Hooper had just arrived, "What is it!? What's the emergency!?"

Sherlock passed her and opened the door, "I've got something in my eye and we may need someone to go out for a take-away. I doubt we'll have Honor do any cooking tonight."

Molly just stared after him in confusion then she looked to John who was pursing his lips and fuming.

Mrs. Hudson was standing on the landing in the doorway of the flat, biting at her nails nervously.

"She just got up, she was mumbling to herself, stumbling about. She got hold of the scalpel." the little landlady was murmuring.

On the floor the old threadbare rug had been pulled back, Honor knelt over a spiraling mosaic carved into the flesh of the wood floor around her. The chemical formula dancing from one calligraphic pictogram to another in a dizzying, whirling, twisting illustration. Sherlock could see some of the elemental symbols and functional signs but most of it was lost to the dramatic aesthetic idea, directed from her unbalanced mind.

She was whispering, always whispering and then would giggle, her free hand running through the mess of hair now free of it's ponytail and chaotically tangled. Like the creature they had first seen at Westerham.

John swore and started over to her but Sherlock put a hand to his chest prohibiting him.

"Sherlock! The girl needs medical attention! We've got to get her to hospital! Something is horribly wrong!"

"Just look at what she's doing to my wood block!" Languished Mrs. Hudson at Molly.

"Wait and let her finish." Sherlock said levelly.

Pent up anger was now let loose and John laid in on his friend, "Sherlock, we can't, _we won't_ let your disgusting obsession for sorting out a mystery, a case, take priority over a person's well being! You had me sent to jail just so you could tail after her, you've called Molly out late to look at your sodding eye, and now you're willing to risk Honor's mental state just so you can…"

"Shhhhhhhh." They all turned to the girl on the floor who was peering at them with eerie consideration. The scalpel gripped in her hand and still digging into the floor.

The air was turbid with the aberrant mood.

"Sherlock…" Molly breathed nervously.

In a lowered voice Holmes spoke, "I've brought hospital to her! You and Molly, the most brilliant doctors in London. I've got the pills from Westerham and this." He pulled out a ready syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"What is that? Where'd you get it from?" John took it from him carefully.

"I lifted it off of Glass when he stuck his finger in my eye!" Groaned Sherlock.

"So he gave her another dose? That's why she's gone off?" Molly managed a word in.

Shaking his head Sherlock answered, "No, she's clean. No fresh needle marks, no other syringe was on him...at least not anywhere readily available."

"Help me understand why you don't want to take her to hospital. We would need to take blood samples and I have the feeling she's going to need to be restrained!" John tried to reason with him.

"Give me ten minutes and I'll give you as much evidence as you need. There's a reason she's been locked away over here…" Sherlock almost implored.

"Yes, she's bleeding bonkers why can't you see that!" John tried to keep his exasperated voice down.

A soft hum floated from Honor and Sherlock started to move around her slowly, giving her a wide berth until he got to the table and he flipped open the laptop.

Mrs. Hudson, unable to continue watching in suspense retreated back to her flat mumbling worriedly to herself.

John reached for Molly's hand and they stepped over to the kitchen, eyes still cautiously watching Honor who had laid down on the ground, intently etching.

After he had typed furiously for a couple of minutes Sherlock sat up and also surveyed the diligent lunatic still scratching at his floor.

There was a soft message alert not five minutes later and Sherlock leaned into the screen.

"There it is. Professor Finch, suffered from adult onset asthma, prescribed formoterol budesonate inhaler. It is her, it has to be her. The graduate student. They were working on something and it went wrong. He died and she was removed. Whomever did it had resources, connections and I highly doubt, if they have taken her to this state, that they have her best interest in mind. She would be exposed at hospital and I don't know if I could protect her there."

She wasn't pretending. Sherlock was almost relieved at the situation. At the same time he knew he should be worried. Glass clearly was and if he was so obsessed over her he wouldn't have taken such a risk as to be caught unless he knew something of Honor's withdrawal situation. The man had a lot to lose. In fact, it was time Sherlock found out exactly how much.

John let a long sigh rush from his nostrils, "Ok. Alright. But if she starts into a fit or anything of the sort. She goes to hospital."

With a noncommittal grunt Sherlock was already typing on the computer, as if it were a normal night and everything was as it always was. And frighteningly, maybe it was John realized. He and Molly began to fuss about the kitchen. Taking out the lab equipment talking lowly and uneasily.

After an hour Honor got up on wobbly legs and went to the cold hearth of the fireplace. Moving the barrier she sat down and began to rearrange the blackened logs drawing on her arms with sooted fingers.

Sherlock had been in the kitchen overlooking the progress of what Molly and John were about and Molly was looking at his irritated, red eye.

She kept glancing long sided at Honor who had suddenly frozen, curled over in a ball.

"Um, it looks like he may have had sulfenic acid applied to his fingers that would rearrange itself at exposure to air to syn-ropanethial-S-oxide. The chemical from freshly cut onions." She said with a little lift in her interest.

Sherlock also nodded, still blinking sporadically. "Effective."

"I think we're ready for that blood sample Sherlock. Better make it two." John called from his seat at the microscope.

Glancing at his phone, Sherlock noted it to be 9:57pm. Taking a cotton ball, alcohol and blood drawing kit anyone would have laying around their flat, he walked over to her slowly.

Her shoulders were shivering as she hunched over and he knelt by her calmly.

"I need to take some blood Honor." Sherlock informed her gently. "Take off your jacket and give me your arm."

"No Sean." It rang clear as a bell.

Impatience bubbled up and Sherlock reached for her arm. With a glint the scalpel was in her charcoal covered hand and she held it at his face menacingly.

"Sherlock." John started from behind.

"Stay back." Holmes put up his hand at John, then he addressed Honor, "Come now, Honor, be a good girl. No one's going to hurt you. We just need some samples."

He reached up slowly and put his hand over hers, securing it. Her hair brambled over her face but he could see her dark eyes wide with uncertainty.

He took the significantly dulled blade from her and began to pull at her sleeve gently. She allowed it. He exposed her scared, anterior arm and began to draw the blood.

"Sherlock?" The soft question was for herself. Her eyes never leaving his face as he worked.

"It's me." He answered anyway.

She kept still after that until he finished.

She had said his name the same way at the stadium, after Glass had kissed her. What had she seen in her mind? Of course she must have just known he was in the room and voiced it. Sherlock's quickly rerouted his thoughts and took the samples over to John. Then back to his computer until he became aware that John was standing next to him saying something.

"Start over. Wasn't listening." Sherlock looked around the room for Honor. She was now at the window looking out, the skull tucked under her arm, humming.

John cleared his throat and began again, "I said I've never seen a compound like this. It's similar to a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor combined with a DMT agonist. Well that's the simplest I can explain it anyway."

"DMT? Dimethyltryptamine...the dream drug?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair considering.

"That was what was in the syringe, the tablets seem to support it as well as inhibit melatonin from being taken up in the synapses." John finished, taking off his latex gloves.

"So she's sleepwalking basically. Easily entreated to suggestion." Molly supplied as she walked over to them, her attention on the girl still at the window.

"At least in theory, Sherlock I'm not exactly sure what is happening to her now if she hasn't had a dosing. Molly thinks she can get an idea if we had a brain...I mean from the morgue." John rubbed his temples.

Sherlock had sat, listening quietly which was almost as unnerving as Honor's strange behavior.

Finally he nodded, "Alright then off you go."

Molly and John looked at each other then John said, "And what will you do? What if she…"

"She'll be fine, she's coming out of it." Sherlock was back at the computer.

With surprised expressions they looked over at Honor who might as well been a marble statue at the glass.

"And how do you know that?" John asked.

"I've ' _studied_ ' hallucinogens thoroughly. Believe me I can tell. She's no longer dreaming, she's morning the return of reality." The dramatic words swelled the silence. "I, in the meantime, am ferreting out our genius Dr. Glass. He's definitely not who he says he is. In this day and age there are pictures all over the internet and for him there's nothing. You leave a trail of yourself and although his is technically acceptable, it is missing the personal aspect. If you're not yourself you're usually someone else."

John and Molly had left he supposed when he realized it was only he and Honor there now.

"Where are we Sherlock?" she said still staring forward. "I...I don't know if I'm really where I am."

"You're safe. We're back at Baker Street." He assured her, taking note of the time as a scientist would a test subject.

Her breath bloomed foggy on the glass and she put a dirty finger up to it. "The phone. I'm so tired."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her vagueness. Obviously she was still coming out of her mania. At least she was stringing coherent words together.

Suddenly she gasped and took an unsure step backwards.

"They're here." She rasped.

Was she still seeing things? Sherlock leaned over to look out the window.

A sleek black car was at the curb.

A tall man climbed out. He wore a three piece pin striped suit and a disappointed frown.

Raising his eyebrows Sherlock stood and moved over to her, "That is the man who was with Sean?"

"He was there at Westerham, with Sean." Honor nodded weakly.

Only stunned for a moment Sherlock took her by the arm, guiding her hurriedly through the kitchen and back to his room. He sat her down on the bed and spoke in a low voice, "Stay here and do not make a sound."

Her chest rose and fell rapidly and excessively and she leaned onto one arm dizzily.

She did not look well and she hung her head.

He would call John immediately, almost immediately.

Quickly he shut the door then moved back to the front room looking around wildly. He flipped the carpet back down covering the scratchings, then put the skull back on the mantle and reset the fire grate just as a crisp knock sounded.

Sweeping the room with a glance one final time he sat down in his chair casually.

"It's open." He said easily.

The tall, lean man entered, his eyes intense with scrutiny. Sherlock's eyes did not meet them however, he pulled his phone out and was swiping at it boredly.

"Mycroft." He addressed his brother, "What an anticlimactic surprise. What dilemma have you come here to have me sort out for you now?"

Raising a thin eyebrow, Mycroft Holmes sauntered into the room, "I was about to ask you a similar question."

With an air of pretentious indifference Sherlock shrugged, "No. Sorry. Unless you know the identity of a homicidal football enthusiast with a nasty trigger finger or a genius proof hiding spot for cigarettes."

As one accustomed to his brother's sledgehammer sarcasm Mycroft hardly blinked but retained his comfortable frigidness. Sherlock eyed his brother.

The complicated relationship between the two of them was a riddle that he had topped trying to solve long ago. All he knew was that it felt, reliable and solid.

Mycroft was the only person in the world that could intimidate, befuddle, perplex and unnerve him. Often he was the only one who could truly read Sherlock. Now he realized Honor must have this ability. She could not be mistaken about identifying Mycroft. How was his brother involved?

"Have you been on any outings in the country lately? Westerham possibly?" Mycroft started to walk about the room, browsing the furnishings and clutter they held.

"Yes actually. I was entertaining the idea of booking a holiday there this summer. I bet we could get a family rate if you fancy coming along." Sherlock made no attempt to aide his sarcasm with tone fluctuation.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes. "Really Sherlock. Must we drag this out? Let us do away with the games and we can cut this unsavory little visit short. Something I'm fairly sure we share a mutual desire for."

Sighing, Sherlock slipped his phone back into his shirt pocket, "If you want to do away with games then why are you asking me what you already know? Of course I've been there. Interrogating Ian Cook. That simple sod had nothing to do with any of these murders you know. That sort of thing intrigues me."

There was a heavy pause. Mycroft eyeing him, turning over in his mind Sherlock's sincerity.

Sherlock couldn't help himself, "Why is there something you don't want me to find there? You know it only increases my curiosity." He taunted.

His elder brother pulled out a timepiece leashed with a chain which hung from his vest pocket, "Sherlock, remember when we were young and you used to poke around in my foot locker which I distinctly wrote: 'Keep out Sherlock' repetitively on it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond.

"Remember what happened when I caught you rummaging about in it?" Mycroft was over in the kitchen area now looking over the freshly used lab equipment nonchalantly.

Yawning Sherlock stood and walked to the door, opening it expectantly.

His brother remained and continued, "This is nothing like that. There are real consequences here Sherlock. Not just me super gluing your nostrils shut."

The stiff clench of Sherlock's jaw gave away his building temper.

"Yes I am very busy at the moment. So if you could just _get out_ …"

"Really Sherlock, you have the preservation instincts of a lemming." Mycroft spouted as he stalked through the door without a goodbye. But just as Sherlock was swinging the door shut, Mycroft's arm shot out and caught it.

"Who's in your bedroom?" He asked.

"Artaxerxes the second. Good bye." Snipped Sherlock.

Mycroft let the door slam in his face. As soon as it was closed, forcefully, Sherlock went back to the bedroom. He practically tripped over Honor's motionless figure which was sprawled on the floor as if she'd fallen, tried to get up and lost consciousness.

Immediately he knelt and felt for the faint pulse.

"Honor." He said softly, trying to rouse her by lifting her to a sitting position.

She shifted them murmured something that sounded like 'home' then was still again. Exhausted. He brushed the hair from her face with his thumb, "What have you done?"

It was an all encompassing question. Mycroft's involvement meant the government's involvement. Was that formula she continuously regurgitated what they wanted? It never looked the same as far as he could tell. What about NeoTech? As if this case hadn't expanded enough with the connection to Daresay, now there was a national security interest. If only she could remember and maybe she did but why wouldn't she tell him?

' _What have you done?'_ The deeper meaning for him he would not contemplate.

Then he heard the front door open and close. John's voice sounded then Molly's.

"Sherlock?" John then called.

Sherlock was lifting Honor back into the bed and stretching out a blanket over her.

He checked his phone. Almost midnight.

"In here." He stood back.

Followed by Molly, John hurried into the room. "What happened?"

John bent over the woman in the bed, lifting her eyelids.

"She was tired." The response was pithy. "What did you find out?"

Molly, who had stood quietly watching spoke up, "It's not good."

"Yes, I'm very worried Sherlock," John nodded, "Of course it's hard to come to any solid theories but there's two schools of thought on what might be happening. First, build up of natural neurotransmitters that had been in hyper production because of Glass' treatments are basically dumping the excess. It's likely eventually they would regulate. But the second possibility is that her brain may be producing it's own version of Glass' drugs. Self sustaining as it were. It could cause her to have these episodes for the rest of her life. Probably she would have to be institutionalized indefinitely."

Sherlock listened to the information. Cross referencing and filing it in his head.

What was the next step? First find Glass, the man would have to know the long term effects. But then there was the next victim of the Daresay shooter. And what about Honor? What to do with her? He needed to shut down and think.

Passing by John and Molly he went to his chair, climbed into it and checked out.


	18. Chapter 18

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **This chapter kicked my butt. My redheaded stepchild chapter is what this was. But necessary I think...**

* * *

His eyes opened and Sherlock raised his head. He was in his chair and it was early morning. His neck was complaining of being in the awkward position all night and his mouth felt fuzzy and dank. Had he been sleeping or thinking? Sometimes it was one in the same to him.

Revisiting his task list he didn't have so many straight forward answers but actions he must take to eventually solve his puzzles in the 'best'* way. Yes, there was more than one way to solve a case.

First, Dr. Glass. There was a timer going off in Honor's head and it may or may not be correctable. Sherlock was an expert in the field of chemistry as it could be applied to forensics and investigational work. But he knew he was no neuropharmacologist. Glass had made this mess and Sherlock would make well sure he tidied it up. But he wouldn't have to go chasing after Glass, the man would come to him he was sure, and soon. Glass's achilles heel was his infatuation with Honor and it was going to be his undoing. Sherlock had only to give him opportunity. This he would provide today and kill two birds with one stone.

Next was what to do with Honor.

Honor...Sherlock bolted out of the chair and dashed down the hallway. The door was open. Had he left it open? Yes. He leaned into the room and Honor still lay there in his bed drooling on his pillow. Someone had put her in her t-shirt from the camisole from yesterday. He turned and went back out and into the kitchen.

Anyway, as he was saying...thinking…

He would simply leave her here with Molly, He took his phone out, battery low. Doesn't John pay attention to these things?

He rang him. No answer, he hung up and tried again, and again.

Finally there was a groggy John on the other line. "Hello?"

"John…"

"Sherlock….I hate you. Whose phone are you calling from?! I don't have this number blocked...I mean under your name." John's voice was pitiful.

Impatiently Sherlock decided to speed things up. These fits could be costing precious minutes.

"Before you get rather cross, it's Honor, come down quick." Sherlock cut in.

"I'll be right there." The voice was instantly awake and dutiful.

He could hear his friend's footsteps upstairs. Sherlock squinted at the ceiling as he made assumptions and he strolled about the kitchen table, noting the leavings of last night's experiments.

Shortly, John had come down the stairs pulling his sweater down, concern grooving his forehead.

"What's happened? Where is she? Did she leave again?" John babbled.

Sherlock was unbothered and at this point didn't need to continue to feint the situation. "What? Oh she's fine. She's in the bedroom still."

Confused, John hurried down the hall looking in then came back out looking 'rather cross'. Sherlock was flicking a settled test tube when John stepped up to him, rolling his sleeves up.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock was curiously pleased at not being able to guess.

"I'm going to hit you and you don't even need to ask." Came the simple answer.

There was little doubt that he meant it but Sherlock had more important things to do than have John waste time like this.

"Come on now we've got to capture the killer and maybe even stop the murder. Now we need Molly to come down and yankeesit." Sherlock walked away from the previously furious and now shocked John.

"How'd you know she was here? Molly I mean."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You never get up on that side of the bed unless someone else is there not to mention…"

"Alright!"

"Do you have some sort of knock out drug you could suggest in case Honor wakes up?" Sherlock began to look at his clothes, sniffing them to decide if he could wear them two days in a row.

With his eyebrows puckered in astonishment John replied, "Wakes up? She's exhausted! She got up and walked all of London last night! Molly and I followed her. I'm knackered! Which is why I'd love to hit you and go back to bed!"

"Out all night?" Sherlock was taken back at this point and nothing else unsurprisingly. "I didn't see you leave…"

A weird smile took John's face and his eyes flitted up to Sherlock's hair, "She did your hair while you were checked out."

Throwing a hand to his head Sherlock felt at his hair. Tiny, tightly twisted sections had been doubled over and they had double twisted after, like rope. The whole of his head.

Now _he_ was cross, "And you let her…"

A satisfied shrug lifted John's shoulders, "It was amusing. You insisted we let her finish engraving our floor, why not that?"

"Well I guess I'll have to go find a comb. Do we even have a comb?" Grumbled Sherlock at first then he echoed, "Comb, comb...comb."

"Right, you've said that." John pointed out sarcastically.

"Home!" Sherlock got to the computer in two strides and sat down typing intensely. "Ah here it is. Honor had said 'Home' last night but she actually said 'Homn'! That woman at the game, in the destined seat, Ingrid Larimer. I looked her up last night and her schedule for the week. People do put their whole lives on social media. She was one of the lead architects on the new museum of prehistoric eras just completed. The display they're doing is research work by a paleontologist named Homn. They're doing a big grand opening and Larimer's scheduled to speak! Honor, she's brilliant!"

"But how'd she know?!" John wondered despite himself.

Sherlock's face fell, "I...I don't know. If she knows where he's going to strike...she must know who he is!"

Looking back to the computer Sherlock's eyes went wide, "We'll have to ask her later. That grand opening is starting in fifteen minutes! Molly!"

Sherlock dashed into the kitchen again looking through cupboards and making no sense as he rambled quietly to himself. Then he disappeared down the hallway for a few minutes. When he came back John was getting his coat on, there was a soft creak on the stairs and Molly stuck her head in the door.

"Yes I'm here, sorry!" She blinked, her cheeks pink.

John noticed her embarrassment and said quickly, "Molly stayed but we didn't…"

Wrinkling his nose Sherlock frowned pulling his own coat on, "I know."

Both John and Molly stood struck then looked to each other.

"How do you know?" John was afraid to ask.

"I just know now can we leave? Molly, don't open the doors for anyone." Sherlock slipped past her.

"Sherlock!" Molly called after him.

"Don't worry! I messaged Barts to tell them you're being sick!" Sherlock assured her as then went down the stairs.

"What? No! I was going to say you should fix your hair!" She heard the door close and then hesitantly went back into the flat.

In the cab Sherlock had one hand raking through his hair and the other was thumb swiping at his phone like mad, it beeped at him sadly.

"You didn't charge my phone." he deduced.

"Must have slipped my mind while I was strolling around Hyde Park at 3 in the morning…" John's mouth tightened. "You know that escalator at Knight's Bridge that never works? She fixed it. With her bare hands. Opened a bloody panel on the side and started tinkering with it, doing that terrifying whispering thing. Then it just up and started working, She had grease everywhere."

The makings of a smile inflicted Sherlock's face but he didn't reply.

Such a mind. Such a strange, intriguing, tortured and tantalizing mind.

The cab pulled up to a curb and Sherlock leaned forward, paying the taxi's toll. John blinked but got out and was soon joined by his friend. They were two blocks from the new building and Sherlock's eyes darted from here to there, taking in everything.

The clouds of the gray sky gave no hint of the sun they blanketed but the city pulsed on in it's dreariness. Sounds of traffic and human life blurred around them as they neared the newer structure just ahead. Glass jutting at impressive angles comprised the main entrance and atrium of the museum. A large crowd of people stood outside waiting to get in. There was something happening just inside, camera flashes, the backs of more people against the windows, most likely attending the grand opening ceremony.

They stopped as Sherlock surveyed.

Leaning over to make his own observations John said, "Sherlock, I don't see Lestrade."

"Sad bit of luck." Came the ambiguous answer.

Johns head snapped back around, "You didn't call the police." It was more of an retrospective deplorement.

"I most certainly did not. What do we need them muddling about for?" Sherlock monotoned.

With an exasperated sigh John got his phone out and Sherlock snatched it away.

"If you're going to invite the clown brigade, text them. I don't want a disturbance such as people running and screaming and scaring off you know who!" He hissed quietly.

"They need to evacuate this area Sherlock…" John started and Sherlock had to staunch the foiling dribble by putting his hand to his friend's mouth.

Sometimes John was counter productive.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the building. From here he could see the three stories inside. The large entrance was open all the way to the roof. There was a veranda on the top floor with two exits to the open air.

With the large crowd here, there would be no getting in it would seem.

Everything he knew about this sniper he drew upon. Never had the person been in the vicinity, as if they were demonstrating their extraordinary marksmanship skills. Never did they shoot the victim directly, it was always a secondary consequence of some impressive display of ingenuitive gunmanship. Usually the victim was crushed by something. This should be simple. He looked up and turned, turned, turned. John was texting furiously when Sherlock spun about and started into traffic across the street, "Come on!"

Educated, calculated, painfully precise conjectures. The woman was just inside, he had seen her through the windows on a platform speaking at a pulpit. Above her, above everyone was a suspended skeleton of some ancient, mammoth sea creature suspended by cables. Logic, everything pointed to this being the murder weapon, secondarily. There had never been collateral damage, meaning other's hurt for the sake of the one so Sherlock would wager on this trend continuing. On his phone he had a picture of the skeleton posted by the museum. The large bones were suspended in sections. The pro-podial bone seemed to line up directly above the woman giving her speech.

The glass would be reinforced and even with a high powered rifle, it may be enough to keep the bullet from severing the strong cable. How would he do it?

They were in the building across the street, an office building of some sort and they got in the elevator and went to the top floor. Sherlock went for the roof access still followed by John.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?"

"Keep your voice down." Sherlock shushed him as they started over to the edge of the building. "He's around here somewhere."

In sudden anxiety John looked around them. "The killer?"

Sherlock had squatted down by the edge of the roof and was looking around. "Well it isn't father christmas."

"And you don't think he's going to just shoot us as well?" John crouched as well, scanning behind them.

Sherlock peered at the museum in front of them, dozens of scenarios being tried for possibility, "He might do."

The shooter wouldn't be on this building, it was too high, there was no clear shot. But somewhere…

The sun finally burned a hole through the clouds and shone down upon their backs. There was a glint off to the right and Sherlock caught the sun off of...a rifle barrel. Two buildings down.

Quickly he dug in his pocket bringing out his handgun.

"There!" He hissed, pointing over 200 yards away. John was a better shot and he shoved the gun at him.

John spun, taking the gun, his eyes wide and searching.

The rifle fired, but it silenced and made more of a sharp air popping sound. Sherlock looked over to the museum. He was shooting through the opening door as guests went in and out! The bullet probably just missing whomever was using the door. From here it was hard to tell if he had hit the cable but Sherlock wouldn't doubt his skill.

"Now John!"

John Watson lifted the handgun and sighted down his arm. The gun boomed and it sent the people below into a panicked frenzy.

Sherlock had been watching and the bullet had hit the rifle barrel with a piercing ping. The rifle jerked and part of a hand and wrist was visible for a split second before everything disappeared back into the window.

"Good shot John let's go!" Sherlock was halfway across the roof. The distant sounds of emergency vehicles wailed as then rushed to exit the building.

They were almost to the door and Sherlock said, "He's wearing a navy blue sweater. Go round the back of the building and I'll take the front.

Outside they pushed into the scurrying crowd. People were yelling and trying to take cover causing Sherlock and John to fight the flow.

Height had usually been a useful feature of Sherlock's and over most of the heads of those around him he saw a navy hooded man turn out the door of the killer's building. It was pulled far forward and the man kept his head down but he was not acting panicked as everyone else. He turned and walked swiftly away, deliberately.

"There!" Sherlock started to push through the maze of hysterical humanity when suddenly he was grabbed from behind.

"That's them!" Pointed a security guard at them, speaking to the two who had grabbed Sherlock and John's arms.

"Wait! No! He's just there…!" Sherlock started pulling away only to get pepper sprayed. By the sound of it so did John and they were taken to the ground.

The tears seemed to make the burning all the more vivid but Sherlock still felt his wrists being put in handcuffs.

"See John! This is why you don't notify the police! I warned you about them didn't I?!" He shouted at his friend.

Through gritted teeth John retorted, "These are security guards! Lestrade will get us out of this!"

An hour later they sat in a jail cell, eyes red and glaring at each other. Apparently even Lestrade had limitations. Having given their story about why they had open fired in a busy city center during a function it would take the detectives who worked at a snail's pace to verify that indeed the bullet that had severed the first of two securing cables did not come from John's hand gun. They had saved the woman's life but lost the killer. Sherlock could find no solace in the fact.

The hours went by until finally a very stressed Lestrade came to their cell and opened the door.

"You two are going to put me in an early grave you know that?" He chastised them.

Sherlock stood up and spoke evenly, "If not us most likely the imminent alcohol induced liver disease, smoking or possibly your hypertension. The cards are stacked against you Glen."

He walked by Lestrade as John received an astonished and slightly irked look from the inspector.

"Does he really not remember my name or is he just taking the piss?" Greg frowned at John who just shook his head. "Look, I'm going to have to confiscate your gun."

It was a cheap price to pay and John knew it, "Cheers Greg."

The policeman nodded, "I think you saved that woman's life. We're looking for anything, surveillance or witnesses who might have seen this guy in the hoodie but the cameras in that building and outside seem to be manipulated so he's just out of frame…"

He left off. Who could do that? Mycroft easily. But although Sherlock's brother had been known to turn a blind eye or suffering some 'questionable' characters in the past in the name of the 'greater good', Sherlock still couldn't believe he'd aid a murderer. There had to be another explanation. At the same time, Honor had identified him as one who had been involved in her incarceration with a man such as Glass.

Now would be the time to get some answers from her. No doubt she had some difficulty with memory but as soon as she had her head sorted, he knew she was not telling the entire truth.

Their little brush with the law had kept them for the better part of the day and they arrived back at home near dark.

"Well I'm going to go flush my eyes out again…" John groaned but noticed Sherlock remaining on the pavement looking at his fading phone.

His normally cool face was now tightened as he stood there.

"Sherlock. What's wrong?" He was almost afraid to ask.

"Nothing, go on." Holmes murmured.

Feet dragging, John sighed and turned to go into the flat. He hadn't slept more than five hours in the last 24 hours and felt his eyes fighting to stay open. Up the stairs he started to unlock the door but Molly swung it open out of his hands.

"Molly?" John asked with concern when he saw her expectant face.

"Did you find Honor?" She asked hastily.

Now John was bewildered, "No...what she's gone _again_?"

"Yes! I messaged both you and Sherlock when you didn't answer your phones…" She looked worried.

"Well we were in jail most of the day…" He took out the phone in his jacket pocket and stopped when he saw it was Sherlock's drained one. John's was nowhere to be found. Sherlock had switched them obviously.

"Sherlock!" John yelled down the stairs but there was no answer. Sherlock was gone also.

* * *

 **Thanks for making it through, should get a little better from here on out if my future self gets it right!**


	19. Chapter 19

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

Molly had sat in the front room as soon as Sherlock and John had left. Not on the couch and to her own surprise, not in Sherlock's chair. But she looked at it, and she felt it looked back at her in a way.

Why did she feel, guilty? Like an unexposed traitor. She had set her heart aside for him for so long. Comparing every man she had met to him even though she had accepted that he would never return her affection she had also accepted she would never stop caring for him. And she hadn't. But it hurt less now.

Molly traced the embroidery stitching on the arm of John's chair. The traditional style of the chair contrasted drastically to Sherlock's contemporary black leather and chrome one. Just like the two men did. She felt so welcome in _this_ chair. When she sat in Sherlock's, she felt like a stranger.

The ring of her phone made her jump. She dug it out of her cherry-print sweater pocket, expecting the call to be from John, but it was from Bart's.

"Hello? What? How did that happen? No! Of course I didn't leave anyone...a body in the cafeteria. I can't come just now. Oh alright. I'll be there in ten minutes." Molly grabbed her coat and mittens.

What was going on?!

After a quick peek in on Honor who was sleeping deeply and looking much better, Molly hurried down the stairs and politely knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

Almost bouncing with impatience Molly almost knocked again but the little old lady opened the door with her hair up in curlers.

"Oh! Molly! Sorry I must be a sight! Here come in lovey…"

"No Mrs. Hudson I can't, I have to go to Bart's for a half hour. Could you just keep an eye on Honor? She's still sleeping." Molly was taking steps backward towards to door.

Anxiously Mrs. Hudson glanced up at the ceiling, "Oh I don't know dear! Alone with her?"

"Please? I'll just pop out and be back in 30 minutes. Just don't let anyone up there!" Molly pleaded.

"Well…" relented Mrs. Hudson.

"Cheers!" Molly dashed out the door, careful to lock it behind her.

Five minutes later the doorbell sounded, bringing Mrs. Hudson to the door, humming a pop tune from the telly. Nobody greeted her but a package, the size of a shoe box which sat on the step.

Picking it up she closed the door and read the addressee: S Holmes. Sherlock often received strange packages but as she glanced at the sender it read: "Kilgwrrwg Livestock Disposal Co. Wales UK".

Mrs. Hudson's nose wrinkled up. "Well I'm not bloody well putting that on my clean table!" she exclaimed and went upstairs immediately.

Scarcely had she sat it down and left than a strange and repugnant odor began to arise from the parcel, bringing the landlady back up the stairs, sniffing as she went.

"Oh dear!" She put her hand over her mouth and nose.

She hurried to the windows and opened them to ventilate the apartment then found a binliner to enclose around the reeking box.

"I mean really!" She gagged, "Sherlock can just do without this sort of thing!" Hurrying she took it outside and threw it in the trash can only to be intercepted by a young lady who looked lost and asked her for directions.

Not long after Molly returned to an empty flat.

* * *

Honor had only just opened her eyes to immediately close them as if the squeeze of her lids together could smother the nausea that washed over her. Would the withdrawal ever degrade? She was lying on her back and went to roll on her side into a ball, just in case the nausea followed through. But her left hand couldn't respond.

Gingerly she opened her eyes to look and saw a vibrant red ribbon tied around her wrist. She tugged at it as she followed the line to the bedpost of an old iron bed. The white paint was chipping off where the ribbon ended, tied in an elegant bow. Rolling her head the other way, as she had assumed, her other wrist was also secured the same way as well as her feet. Where was she? This was not Sherlock's bed. She blushed as she remembered, vaguely, him talking to her as he picked her up and set her down on the unmade sheets.

Now taking in her surroundings, she did not recognize anything about this room. It looked worse than the basement apartment at Baker's street. The old floral wallpaper was faded and peeling. The brass light fixture above her had, at one time, been a small chandelier but now hung tarnished and missing most of its crystals. It hung only by it's aged electric chord which couldn't have very much fortitude left.

There were old news papers and a goodly amount of dust covering the wood floors, the papers sliding slightly with the breeze that came in through a single window with old blinds. An old stand up lamp stood in one corner alight with a scarlet scarf draped over it, sending a rosy color about the room. It was very drafty and Honor, in her boxers and white t shirt, shivered.

A creaking sound brought her attention to the door across front of her and she watched the lever handle turned down and the door swung in with a yawning squeak.

"Ah awake? Pity, it was fun watching you sleep." Said an alluring voice before the door fully opened.

A shapely leg led the rest of the woman's body into the room and she stood in a leisurely pose. She had a short black kimono robe on, tied loosely around her small waist. Her hair was up in perfect dark finger waves leaving her pale neck exposed. The glamorously sculpted face was adorned with a saucy smile, lips painted the same red as the ribbon fetter.

Honor said nothing, still trying to figure out if she'd actually woken yet. The woman looked so familiar. Those eyes, piercing and powerful brought back muddied memories that were more fleeting anamnesis.

Amused, the woman began to saunter a few steps into the room. "Speechless I see. Don't worry, I never underestimate the quiet ones. They're usually the most ferocious." She teased, biting the last words hungrily.

Honor tried to situate herself up to sit but the ribbons held tight.

"Pure reinforced silk of my own design my dear. They could hold an ox if I'd a mind to. The knot also tightens as you...struggle. Makes things more intense I find." She finished, adjusting a large diamond earring playfully and walked over to the window, fussing to shut it. "There, I don't want you shivering, it's distracting."

"What do you want?" Honor asked. She had begun to try to work a wrist out discreetly.

The woman laughed musically nearing the bed. "That's usually my line actually. Rather nice to hear it for once."

She sat down at the foot of the bed and spread her fingers over the gray sheets. "I took the liberty of bringing Sherlock's sheets with us, that way you can still frolic in them as you obviously wish to and I can burn them, perhaps at the same time." The woman's perfectly shaped lips fell into a cold frown momentarily.

Honor's keen sense of human nature screamed at her that this woman was very dangerous, and very infatuated with Holmes. Then she realized who she was. The voice in the bedroom she had overheard as she had lain on the couch.

Yet a twinge of irritation tightened in Honor's chest. She knew Sherlock was a raving lunatic, factious and reckless, but what in the world did he see in this woman? Surely just her beauty, her demoniac, avid beauty couldn't be what held him? Maybe her extraordinary attitude and charisma.

"So," the woman said, watching Honor with pale eyes, "Shall we get started?"

Honor tossed her head, trying to clear her view of the overgrown fringe that tickled her nose. "I'm really not into this sort of thing Miss…"

"Adler."

"Adler, thanks. And besides, isn't it customary to have two willing parties?"

The woman let out an honest laugh. "Actually, there is no such thing as customary in this line of work precious and besides, you aren't a client. More, staff filling a temporary 'position' in my R and D department."

Miss Adler reached into her robe and magically produced a pair of scissors. Honor's face must have advertised some perplexity because the woman smiled sweetly, rubbing the tip of the closed blades across her own jawbone thoughtfully. "Most men are more physical. I could be blogging during a session and a man wouldn't know the difference. But Sherlock's mind is always working and thus needs to be pacified as well. You," She paused with some disgust, "May just think the most like him. So I want to see what makes you tick."

"I'll take that as an insult."

The woman stopped to look at her again, then leaned up to the bow of the ribbon that held Honor's right hand. Pulling an end, it loosened one loop, letting Honor's arm slacken. Four inches to be exact she noted. Then, Miss Adler reached over and grabbed her shoulder, the scissors flashing, cutting and the short sleeve of Honor's t-shirt fell away. Honor began to retract in protest but a sharp blade was instantly at her throat.

Looking back to the exposed shoulder, the woman moved it so that she could see the backside, her red lips pursing. "So you are the little lost one. I remember when Moriarty gave you that mark a week or so ago? Hmm, Sherly's let you get all scruffy I hardly recognized you. Well as soon as I have my fun I'll return you to your proper owners, Jimmy and his delicious cousin doctor."

Suddenly she was on top of Honor who inhaled sharply. The woman drew back her lips, showing perfect, white teeth and began to stroke Honor's hair. "Perhaps they'll take you where they appreciate your hillbilly, thieving American type, in Russia or Syria. Do you know how your gritty accent offends the polished British ear?" she asked airily.

Honor watched her take a wide portion of hair from her temple and begin to braid it loosely.

"If you'll just let me go, I would be more than happy to leave and never come back. Besides, I'm more of a redneck that a hillbilly, and I don't believe I've stolen anything." Honor bargained.

Still tenderly braiding to the end of the long length of hair, the woman said, "You know I always loved to do my doll's hair when I was a girl."

She quickly brought the scissors around and snipped the braid off near Honor's scalp, leaving a large choppy patch of short hair. Honor stared in shock.

Holding the severed hair up, Miss Adler's face hardened. "I plan of fleecing you every time you deny it." she stated coldly.

Honor had to stop herself from countering, she would get nowhere like this. Literally.

"Miss Adler, maybe you're right. Sherlock and I might think fairly similarly…so could I tell you a secret?" Honor lowered her voice to a husky whisper.

The woman hesitated, her suspicions melting into curiosity. She then leaned a little closer. Honor shifted to lift her face close to the woman's and whispered, "I think Sherlock is over you."

The woman's face fell just in time to get broadsided by Honor's loosened elbow. Dropping the scissors to grab her cheek, Miss Adler would only be phased for a moment. Honor tried to grab the scissors with her slackened hand but came up short. She knew it would and Miss Adler had recovered and grabbed the scissors, hurling them across the room.

With a reddened lump beginning, the woman dug her nails into either side of Honor's mouth, squeezing hard. "I see you're the kind of girl that fancies it rough."

She reached into the robe again, pulling out a long horse whip. Now Honor was really impressed.

"Let's try a favorite of mine as well as Sherlock's."

She hopped off the bed and raised the black switch. Then with a whoosh of air, she brought it down on Honor's shoulder. Then again on her legs. The slap left stinging welts and Honor yelped and cried out, "Sherlock! Please!"

The woman stopped in genuine shock at this outburst then the door flew open.

Spinning around, the woman faced Sherlock. One hand in the dark tweed pocket of his long coat and the other holding a tired pair of combat boots, he stepped into the room. "That should do it Irene."

 _Irene_.

The name was caught up in Honor's quick cognisense.

"Sherlock." Irene's face was shading back from flushed to ivory.

She looped her arm casually around the bedpost, leaning up against it. "It took you long enough to track me down. You're slipping."

Sherlock shrugged this off and walked over to the scissors that were near him on the floor. Honor panted, trying to calm herself despite the vivid stripes burning on her skin. For a woman as slight as she looked, Irene had wielded the whip with surprising strength. But it had stopped now and she let herself lay back.

A gentle hand took Honor's and the tautness of her bond disappeared, then the other side. Opening her eyes finally, Honor looked at Holmes as he cut her feet free. An unusual feeling of anger, no rage boiled up inside her and she bit her lip, sitting up with the detective next to her. "Clever you must admit Sherly. How I got into your fortress without a broken window. With your little corpse tart on duty?" Irene boasted bitterly.

"Predictable."

"But you couldn't keep me out."

"'Didn't'. Still easy enough to track you down. I left a little mixture on the floor that you stepped in leaving a phosphorous 'heat' path traceable with an infrared app on a mobile. Love what you've done with the place by the way. And conveniently two blocks down from mine." Sherlock fired back dully.

Honor, who had been cutting what was left of the ribbons from her ankles, shook her head in disbelief at the absurd conversation she was hearing.

"You two are perfect for each other." she mumbled as she stuffed her feet into the boots.

"It speaks." Irene said with lazy sarcasm, padding at her cheek that was starting to swell where Honor had elbowed her.

Standing up, Honor flinched slightly at the lashings, but she set her shoulders squarely. "Sorry, I've nothing much to say to you. You've just assaulted me and I hope you have a great time whipping your cellmate in prison or in a padded room."

Honor finished only to get a frown from Sherlock and a delighted giggle from Irene. "Really Sherlock darling. I thought they said she was smart." Then she redirected to Honor. "You're the nutter by the way, remember lovey? Besides, you gave as well as you got."

Sherlock stood when Honor did, grabbing her arm as the girl took a step towards her recent captor.

"Actually Honor, Irene has diplomatic immunity. Calling the police would be pointless. She'd never even be handcuffed." he informed her cooly.

"Not unwillingly anyway." Irene threw in.

Reaching up to feel at her sheared patch of hair, Honor glared at Sherlock, then at the taunting smile of Adler.

"Well you should suggest that to the plastic surgeon you're sleeping with. He can't seem to get the crow's feet on the left side quite ironed out can he? Oh and your pedicurist has a nasty fungal infection." Honor said as she headed for the door.

Irene's eyes went wide and she threw the whip at the girl's back.

Sherlock's arm shot out, knocking it away. "I said enough Irene."

Ignoring him, the woman shouted passed him at Honor. "You psycho tramp!"

Honor paused at the door, "I guess he does have a type doesn't he?" She retorted before she disappeared.

Unphased, Sherlock turned to go as well. Irene caught his arm as he went to follow the American girl out the door.

"You can stay of course. Your yankee hayseed may not be interested, but I can wear this if you fancy it." She said, holding up the two feet worth of blonde waves.

Sherlock just looked at her passively, "Take care." the words were empty.

"Keep in touch." She teased playfully, tapping his nose with the tip or her whip.

He pulled away and left. The playfulness fell from Irene's face and she stood there, her fists clenched.

Sherlock took the stairs swiftly until he caught up with Honor and they descended the last couple flights. Sparse lighting barely revealed the steps as they went but it didn't slow their gait.

He shrugged off his coat and awkwardly offered it to her as they were still moving. She hastened her pace.

"No thank you." she refused.

"Take it, it's cold."

"I don't want anything from you ever again." She snapped.

"Oh please, not one of your tantrums. By the way, what happened to your hair?"

Honor stopped abruptly two steps from the bottom and spun around. "You know. You were there the whole time practically and did nothing!"

She had to strain to look up at him. He tried again to swing the coat over her shoulders and she pushed it away.

"How do you reckon?" he asked with annoyance.

"Call it a sixth sense. You slid your hands on the banister as you always do, the watermark on the floor outside the door from the snow from your shoes. Almost dry shoes now might I add so you were there for over five minutes. Plus I could smell the cigarette scent on you from the second floor!"

"You're guessing." A small, satisfied smile played at his lips and he brushed passed her.

" _You_ let her horse whip me you jerk!" She growled at him as he stopped at the ground floor.

Turning around, he was about the same height as her as she was still two steps up. "I was solving your mystery. Irene gave everything away didn't she? You are in a pretty little mess aren't you? Mixed up with Moriarty and I have the feeling you knew more than you were telling. You probably deserved a good swat."

Flushing in anger Honor stared at him. Then she looked away, blinking emotionally. "How can I ever trust you?"

He took a step up closer to her. "Try Honor."

She traced one of the whip marks across her side and shuddered. "I remember, not everything, but before."

Sherlock reached around her to put the coat on her, meeting no resistance this time. "And you've figured it out of course."

"Yes."

"Brilliant. I knew you'd do it. Eventually." He praised her like a favorite pet. Without thinking he took her chin and gave it a rewarding squeeze. Sentiment. How could those eyes completely occupy his observation? That was most likely why he didn't see the slap coming he later deduced.

It stung and he blinked stupidly.

Her chest rose and fell with beautiful fury and he smiled, "You're hair suits you. Now let's get you home before you start wandering about fixing escalators again."

* * *

 **Ok so is this too much? Do I need to change the rating? Ugh!**


	20. Chapter 20

**D** **isclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original characters and plot are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.**

 **Kinda fell of the face of the earth.**

 **Ok, so I only edited this once so it's riddled with embarrassing...since when has 'embarrassing' had two 'r's? Well that explains a lot. Sorry, sidetracked, ...lots of mistakes and I had a headache at the end of this chapter. So take APAP before you read this. Thanks. :D**

 **Backstory**

* * *

Boston MA. Last year.

The constants, charge, permittivity and electrolysis equation components filled Honor's mind like colors in a painting. Flowing one to another, constructing a larger image, a masterpiece.

 _Leaf_.

Honor shook her head to shift her blonde hair from her view momentarily. The peach-pink colored leaf had fallen on her notepad she was walking and writing on at the same time. It jerked her back to reality from the daze of formulas and reactions that commandeered her thoughts so dominantly. Veins so articulately ran through the leaf's skin like purple cracks in old porcelain. Autumn? No..it was spring. She blinked, looking up as she passed. Tricolored beech tree. Chemical explanations of the tree's prefered wavelength of light filled her head. That was how she saw the world at the moment. A universe of simultaneously progressing reactions.

But she looked around her in a sudden awareness. The university's campus was flooded with seasoned, resilient students who had survived the Fall and Winter semesters. It must be finals she deduced from the bombardment of tells each person divulged as they walked by. Well worn pages of text books, earmarked and covers blemished. Practice tests spread out over the grasses and conversations about upcoming exams or the possibility of having to take a course again.

When was the last time she had taken an exam? Even in the couple of undergraduate classes she had taken she was usually recruited to help write the test.

The last time she had checked in with the rest of the world it had been winter sometime. The dormant lawns brown and stiff with frost.

 _Impact_.

Her usual route had been obscured.

 _Result_ , notebooks, papers everywhere.

"Whoa I'm so sorry!" Said a man's voice as Honor scrambled to clutch what was left in her ambitious load. She kept her eyes down to the ground as she bent over to retrieve the scattered literature.

"It's alright don't worry about it." She said softly, trying to keep interaction with the stranger at a minimum. She found this less tiring as her overly curious brain began its assumptions and predictions immediately upon sight. But unfortunately the man had manners and instead of moving on as some would, he began to help her.

"Nice boots." British accent. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed.

"Thanks, they were my dad's from the army." She supplied, wondering why she had felt he needed the information. She glanced up through her sheltering bangs.

He was about her age with a shaved head and broad shoulders. _Deduction_. Her eyes scanned over his clothing and tablet he held, his backpack. A protruding writing pad peeked from his pocket with a paper and a wrapper of some sort. Glancing back up at his face she noticed the bags under his eyes and the rough stubble on his jaws. _Speculation_.

The two of them stood up, her papers all accounted for.

"Thanks." Honor nodded and began to turn into the building behind them.

"Hey wait. I'm Kapoor by the way. Is this the Keetin faculty laboratory building? Are you a chemistry student?" he fired inquiries as he began to walk with her.

She hesitated, she actually didn't know what the building's name was. "I graduated a year ago. I'm not sure which building this is though. Excuse me."

"Graduated? What in?" he had moved in front of her, forcing her to stop.

"Um, Masters in Chemistry, Chemical engineering, Nanoscience, biophysics, I can't remember the names." She knitted her brows together.

He looked surprised and coughed. "So you work...or teach here? I'm sorry to be so curious but I'm an investigational journalist from…"

"London England. Originally from Birmingham. Your first assignment for the Telegraph. You've just come in from Washington DC..." She didn't even mean to speak.

He looked at her in astonishment. "Right. How...did you…"

Most innocent conversations she was involved in started this way. Normal. Then, inevitably, came her unorthodox regurgitation of perception. "You have that inflection in your accent of that particular area, and rumpled traveling clothes showing particular creases of being in a seat for a while. That AMtrack ticket I saw in your shirt pocket. Union station origin. The pool's down the hill at Campus Drive and Wilson if you want to go swimming, you look like you need to relax."

The look of surprise morphed into shock. "...uh, how'd you know I swim...or…"

Honor shrugged, "You have dry skin, face, neck hands and arms." She pointed awkwardly. "You have tanning marks consistent with swim goggles as well as muscle tone connected to especially the butterfly...chlorine cough."

"Ah there you are!" They turned at the new voice to see an older man smiling as he walked up to them. In his 50's and in good physical form, he wore a button up shirt and slacks. There was only a hint of grey showing throughout his nut brown hair.

"Dr. Finch? " Kapoor said more to himself at first. "I've been trying to get into contact with you sir. I'm from the Telegraph in London I have some questions about the EPA hazardous waste regulations you apposed in the senate yesterday in Washington.."

Finch gave him a passive nod, "Yes of course please contact my secretary and we'll set something up hmmm?" He then directed his attention to Honor. "Long day ahead Honor. I've already started the initial processes. Shall we?"

Honor nodded her awkward goodbye to the young man staring after them.

"Oh, um Kapoor?" Honor stopped and looked back at him. "You missed your video chat session with your mother"

She had seen the notification on his phone as he was talking. Text rolling up the top of the message center. The woman called him 'giggly goose' which Honor was proud of herself for not letting slip out.

She and Dr. Finch went into the building and he swiped his id card at a 'staff only' locked door. "How have you felt today? You said you've been feeling sick for over a month now." he chatted, opening the door. Trying to smile, Honor replied, "I probably just have influenza or some other acute respiratory infection."

"Don't even say that. After you." Dr. Finch ushered her in. "No time to be sick now you know."

The research lab had newly been refurbished with state of the art equipment and supplies. The modern updates always came here before being passed on later to the general labs for students to use later. Here, Honor had spent the better part of the last two years letting her brain run rampant. Many times she didn't bother to go home at night and would sleep on a futon in the corner which Dr. Finch happily provided for her.

They were working on something together, and they were close to succeeding in their goal. Finch said that the long hours, all the money he had to beg and borrow to put into their project, everything was about to pay off. And it was all because of Honor. Their research team of two had had several breakthroughs and finally the end was in sight. Accept she had been the genius behind the theory for quite sometime. She had surpassed him in the development to a revolutionary propulsion system that, coupled with a specialized crop nutrition compound, could drastically improve agricultural methods and its yields as the world knew it. And it was easy and affordable, eco friendly and effective. The impact it would have on underdeveloped countries would be incredible.

Finch had admitted he would have never approached the engineering of the distribution chemical system this way in a million years. It was originality and ingenuity at it's finest. Only the final details, tweaks to truly get the compound to work reliably remained. While Finch was elated, Honor felt no such feeling, yet. She was scared. Scared of the end.

This project had occupied her for so long. A sweet numbing for her hyper cognisance. Perhaps that was why she was light-headed and sickly feeling as of late. Luckily, there had been some snags that had slowed things up now but she knew this would mean a lot to a great deal of people.

So she pulled on her lab coat over her t-shirt and jeans and powered up the computer, then put her hair up in a ponytail to clear her vision. Honor spread out her notebooks, trying to put them back in order. Finch was saying something. He would do that often but her attention was hijacked again by her relentless brain.

Reactions bubbled up from many points of their project process that demanded her attention to their specific problems. Normally it would take multiple lab attendants to mind the multiple experiments she would handle herself. Finch seemed relieved to have just he and she in the lab. She would usually just direct him in his work, without even noticing.

Now she was running a simulation program on the computer, and she looked up at the clock. 1 o'clock. Hours had passed. She looked around and Finch was nowhere to be seen. She was expecting some samples to test he was preparing for her. Maybe he was in his office just across the hall. This part of the building was very quiet and empty. Finch saw to that. He said he didn't want the project disturbed. But today Honor heard voices.

She slowed her step to the cracked door of the Doctor's office as the voices became discernible. One was the familiar voice of Finch who was doing most of the talking, and he was angry. The other voice was soft and calm.

"Listen, I have many interested parties in this research. Each willing to pay top dollar." Finch informed whomever. "I put you at the top of the list because of the recommendations of some very important connections. Don't try to push me around because I have no problem selling this technology to the next guy in line."

Honor stopped. Her instincts compelling her to wait and listen.

"Please Mr. Bird…" The calm man's voice sounded unstressed.

"Finch!" came the irritated correction.

"Right. Whatever. I'm simply the coordinator here. First of all, I already know about your clients. You mean the US military and we both know that if you sell your research to them, most of the 'official' money will go back into this University. We on the other hand, will pay you under the table, all of it." The new voice spoke levely, blandly.

"But the recognition. I want the credit! I wouldn't get to publish my work." Finch almost whined.

"Well that's how it works. You have to decide what's most important to you. Besides, what about your, assistant?" the voice, sounded American but it was a faked accent.

He was Irish. The man had been staying here in Boston for perhaps a little over a month she would guess by the hoarseness of his voice that comes with the common seasonal allergies.

"Roswell? Well, she has little contribution to the whole project anyway. She won't fuss, I'll give her some excuse, loss of funding or something. She's special in her talents but as gullible as they come."

The words hit her like a train. She trusted, _had_ trusted Finch. Working with him long hours daily for two years, she had become very comfortable around him. Which was unusual for her. He had been using her? He was right, she was gullible.

"My clients are more concerned with the fact that they have no interest in growing food. They have interest in chemical warfare and want to know that your propellant can maximize or control the target area of their choice like you say it can." Said the Irishman.

Finch's voice was stressed, "We are almost there and I can give you a demonstration on the final product."

"So money wins out over notoriety. Typical." the stranger observed aloud.

Honor began to step back. Finch had told her to keep their work under tight disclosure, a common practice so no one plagiarizes your work. Now she mulled over if anyone would believe her if she told them this story. Chemical warfare? She began to realize the possibilities of increased damage her development could cause. If she could only think. Perhaps there would be a way of locking the propellant. Making it customized to only specific chemicals that were harmless to humans. But that would take time.

Silently she went back to the laboratory. She knew Finch had access to all the online records and data, but most of the crucial steps were detailed in the lab notebooks. She began to type furiously, changing things and erasing vital points of research. Anything to diverge duplication.

Finch had become very behind in her work, like he was happy for her to take the wheel and do everything. Why not? It would have been free money and notoriety. She was interested in neither.

Honor breathed in sharply, he was right. She _would_ have just let him take the credit for everything. But now that she knew he was going to sell to some, organization of unethical intentions, she had to do something.

She hurried over to Finch's workspace, his notebooks sitting amongst the glassware. She snatched them up and his laptop then ran back over to her area and gathered her own papers. She stacked them neatly and hefted them up, turning for the door. It opened and Finch caught sight of her, his normally pleasant face dropping as he eyed her load.

"Honor?" He began, "What…" Realization contorted his expression into a disappointed frown. "I would have never taken you for an eavesdropper."

"I never would have thought of you as a greedy thief with no conscience." Honor snapped back.

She was looking around for a way out. He blocked the only door. What would he be willing to do? By just the look in his eyes she knew, anything. From behind him came a strange, chilling chuckle. A shorter man, just a couple inches taller than she, pushed by Finch. He wore expensive attire and had his dark hair slicked back. Removing a wide lensed pair of sunglasses with a gloved hand he looked amused.

"Don't mind me Dr. Kiwi. Carry on. It seems you have this under control."

The man moved to a table, looking at the objects it held passively. But Honor knew he was very much observing the ordeal between her and the professor.

"Finch." Finch growled.

Honor took a step to her left, she had an idea.

"There's nowhere to go Honor, put down the notes and let's talk." Her lab partner said calmly, putting a sugary smile on his face.

She took another step, towards the hazchem bins just another table over.

"Go ahead and talk." She offered and set the notebooks down on the table next to her.

Honor glanced over at the other man who was now leaning against the table and smiling broadly as he polished the glasses in his hand. Behind her she knew a cart of stock bottles was parked and she tried to feel them, searching for something specific.

"You misunderstood. If you would have just come in, I could have explained the whole thing. This gentleman is Mr. Moriarty. He represents an agency in Europe interested in sponsoring our research!" Doctor slickly contradicted the conversation Honor had heard.

She was almost insulted that he thought she was that simple. But she kept her face smooth. "I didn't know we were looking for sponsors already. We haven't finished even a working prototype. Why didn't you tell me?"

Her hand closed around two small bottle neck, hoping the table and notebooks in front of her would block their view of her movements. She slipped the bottles in her pocket.

Finch gave a belittling shrug. "It came up all of the sudden. I didn't want to say anything until I knew it was for sure. Now, whatever silly notion you have in your head right now, just forget it. It's all a misunderstanding."

"I don't misunderstand." Honor said grabbing the pile of books and dashed over to one of the large barrels that held disposed materials and dumped the stack into the sludge that came up about half way.

"No! Roswell!" The doctor yelled, running towards her.

She grabbed the bottles out of her pocket and didn't hesitate, she threw them into the inside wall of the barrel, the glass smashing. Slamming the lid down she tightened the latches just as Finch got to her. He pushed her aside and began to dig at the latch. Just then the barrel shook, the sides puffed out and deformed.

The muffled blast still made her ears ring. Honor expected a faster combustion. The barrel was explosive proof but she had wondered if she'd get the lid on in time. Now she took the opportunity to make a run for the door while Dr. Finch was still stunned from the explosion.

She had almost forgotten the man. He had not moved, but now he stood straight up, his eyes boring into her as she neared the door and him. She picked up a heavy duty 3500 ml beaker and hefted it threateningly. Moriarty took a step to block the door.

"Move." She surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice as her heart pounded in her ears.

Suddenly Moriarty's face melted from it's disturbing scowl to calmness and he looked over to Finch who had given up on opening the bin to salvage any of the notebooks from it. The doctor however was furious and turned to them.

"You'll pay for this…" he vowed to Honor.

"Actually Mr. Pinch, I think it's time I took over." Moriarty took a sleek pistol from his jacket and checked the chamber as he spoke. The tenseness in the air increased as both Honor and Finch stared at the revealed weapon.

"Now Mr. Moriarty! There's no call for that!" Finch stuttered. "She's already destroyed the research there's no reason or profit in retaliation."

Realizing Finch was actually trying to protect her, Honor was even more shocked than she had been by the gun.

Moriarty ignored the question and called towards the door. "Sean! We're ready."

A man sporting a tailored suit and a neatly trimmed beard came through the doors as Moriarty pointed the gun at Honor.

Finch took a step towards them. "No please."

A shot rang out. The bullet had just gone over Honor's shoulder. She had felt the whiz of air on her neck. _Paralyzed_ , her thoughts, everything gone. It was a new experience for her. Only fear remained.

"Don't move. Anyone." Moriarty warned in a strange, frightening voice.

The man called Sean moved over to Honor and took her arm gently. Instinctively she started to pull away and another bullet hit and shattered a glass cupboard behind her. Sean had tensed up as he had also been in the line of fire.

He looked at her and said with a shaky voice. "Do not test him."

"GET ON WITH IT!" Moriarty's roar was as ear-splitting as the gun fire.

Sean quickly took a needle from his breast pocket and inserted it into her arm.

There were marks there already. From needles? How had she missed them?

"What are you doing?" Honor asked the man, searching his reflective eyes for answers.

Then the world bent. She leaned forward, her head spinning.

Sean stabilized her balance.

"What is going on?" Finch ventured, clearly befuddled.

Moriarty didn't even look over at him but shrugged. "Don't worry. I was never going to shoot her. She's the whole reason we're here. Never cared for the Red Sox or clam chowder. Especially not for some bit of research as boring as this. But I had to see her for myself."

His rant was less than enlightening. His partner was steadying Honor who had her head in her hands and mumbling something.

"I'd like to say I'm impressed but I think we've got some work to do with her. But I'm sure I could be a patient man if I tried." Moriarty said and walked over to her and began singing under his breath. "Earth angel, earth angel, will you be mine…You however Dr. Finch, I have no more use for."

And he positioned the gun into Honor's hand, putting her finger in the trigger loop. Finch's face paled and he started to plead right when the gun went off.

* * *

"That was the last thing I remember besides some bits and pieces. Your brother was there with Moriarty when they put me in Westerham." Honor said as she worked at the piano in the basement.

"When I said give me the details I didn't mean a whole novel." Sherlock rubbed his head. "So Moriarty and his cousin the desireable doper had been following you around long before the incident. Tainting you in your sleep or something with precursors of his super sedative and registering the gun in your name. He framed you for Finch's murder which the government covered up as a suicide and arranged with my dear brother and 'Doctor Glass' to have you rehabilitated here. Hoping you may be able to reproduce your work at some point. Meanwhile Moriarty is using you to freelance different developer's lab-snags and discovers the football sniper and has Ian Cook take the blame for his murders and goes to the asylum. But what did Moriarty want from the shooter so as to protect him?" It was a slow drain of the torrent that was in his mind and he spoke without any expectation of her responding of course.

Honor fussed with the tuning pins of the upright piano as they sat in the musty basement. She hummed the different tones with perfect pitch until the string vibrated in tune with her.

She was still angry with him. The welts on her leg and shoulder resonating pain. The drafty patch of hair at her head distracting. It must be after midnight but she wasn't tired.

Sherlock paced behind her, "So with both of our bungling governments making a pudding of this whole thing, we need to clear your name, and make you no longer desirable in Moriarty's eyes. On a side note, who's the shooter by the way?"

Sitting straight she looked at him questioningly, "I don't know…"

"Come on Honor, don't get humorous now. Out with it." Sherlock prodded. "You said 'Homn' remember? The next place he would strike…"

Rubbing at the blisters on her fingers where she had held the scapple earlier she shrugged, "I don't remember that."

"Oh bloody perfect. I mean, have you ever tried a mind palace…?" He started then they smelled the aroma coming down from the floor above.

Honor sniffed at the air like a hound dog.

"Sherlock…?"

The sound of the stairs creaking and then the door opening brought them around to see Mrs. Hudson enter with a plate in her hands.

Eyes widened and a lift in her shoulders Honor glanced at Sherlock, "Corn dogs!"

Sherlock looked unimpressed at the food item as Mrs. Hudson brought it over to them.

"You look so much better dear. I love your new haircut! It's so young and edgy. Like that Dora Legato or whatever her name is! I wonder if I should do something…"

"Yes, don't care, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock interrupted her as he took up one of the corn dogs on the plate. He frowned deeply, "Is this it? A frankfurter on a stick? Wrapped in a pancake? Do you dip it in salad cream or something?"

Honor was devouring it blissfully, "Just because you did this, doesn't mean I forgive you." She said in between bites.

"Forgive me for what?!" He picked at the fried batter coating, "Look if you're still upset about Irene, I'll owe you a favor."

This did stop Honor mid-chew and she glanced over at him. "Anything?"

"Anything."


End file.
